


The Oasis

by FieryPen37



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Accidental Bodyguard, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, CEO Daenerys, Daario is a fuckboi, Danger, Death Threats, Enthusiastic Consent, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Flirting, Good Sex, Grinding, Heavy Petting, I Will Go Down With This Ship, Jon Snow is Not a Targaryen, Making Out, Massage, Masseur Jon, Modern Westeros, Multiple Orgasms, Mutual Pining, Oral Sex, Smut, Tagged just to be safe, Unresolved Sexual Tension, mentions of rape (not named character), safe houses, unbetaed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-05
Updated: 2019-05-10
Packaged: 2019-06-22 10:04:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 13
Words: 46,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15579519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FieryPen37/pseuds/FieryPen37
Summary: With uptight and stressed CEO Daenerys Targaryen's regular masseur on leave, she has to make do with the replacement Jon Snow. Relaxation is not something she can find with his hands on her. Too bad he doesn't feel the same. Except unbeknownst to her, he definitely does. When a threat on her life pushes them together, they must both learn to deal with their growing feelings.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is a persistent plot bunny that grew legs. My hubby bought me my first couple's massage for my birthday some months back, and it was awesome. So, naturally, I turn to fic. Held Captive takes precedence, but this fic will have updates at some point.

The Oasis

 

 

‘The Oasis’ was a rather pretentious name for a glorified hole-in-the wall, she thought. Then again, as one of the most recognizable faces in the known world, such places could be counted upon for their discretion. Crammed between a seedy tavern and an even seedier lawyer’s office, The Oasis sat in a neglected shopping district on Visenya’s Hill. A perfect place to escape her life. The pressures of running her own law practice in addition to her family’s billion-crown conglomerate, her fiancé Daario, her miserable brother Viserys . . . Pain throbbed between her shoulder blades and at the base of her skull, urging her beyond her prevaricating. Missy would help. Missy always helped.

Daenerys shoved open the heavy wooden door, embraced by the cool, humming quiet of the foyer. The cool of central air was a breath of relief after the sticky heat of the day. A water feature bubbled in the corner, soft strains of harp music floated in the air. The counter was empty, despite the tinkle of the door’s bell giving away her entry. Daenerys frowned, her body strung taut as piano wire.

Her lone ally on the Board of Trustees, Tyrion Lannister, flicked a card on her desk three weeks ago with conspiratorial wink. It was a memorable occasion, she remembered. Her face was splashed across newspapers and magazines, photographers of dubious reputation swearing she had sacked Daario for cheating . . . _again_. The wedding had taken on a demented life of its own, her brother snidely offering the hall of their old family estate on Dragonstone to hold the boatloads of the King’s Landing elite planning to attend. In Meereen, the Harpy Triumvirate shirked her injunction on human trafficking. Company stock had taken a dip in light of the scandal revolving around her COO Cersei Lannister and her brother Jamie. That, plus three nights without a wink of sleep had led Daenerys to find some very creative words for the Meereenese chief officer seated across the arbitrating table from her.

At first, Daenerys had taken umbrage at Tyrion’s casual implication. Nothing raised her hackles more than some idiot implying it was ‘her time of the month’ when her temper soured. Over morning tea, brewed strong and sweetened with sugar, Tyrion reassured her that this place had maintained his sanity during his time in government work. Daenerys took his advice with some reluctance.

Missy’s soft hands and patient touch worked years of tension from her body. Daenerys had made it a weekly ritual. Sometimes twice weekly, if her schedule allowed. It became a craving, to replace the sweet Lysene cigarettes she quit for the last time three days ago. Shae, The Oasis’ proprietor, was an ex-girlfriend of Tryion’s, with a certain low humor and disarming demeanor that Daenerys admired.  

Shae emerged from the dim recesses of an inner office.

“Miss Targaryen, we did not have you scheduled today,” she said, a soft accent smoothing the syllables. Daenerys managed a weak smile.

“I need an hour. Please,” she said. Tension sent bolts of pain up into her skull, the edges of her vision pulsed red. Shae’s finely shaped eyebrows puckered.

“Missy isn’t here. She and Grey had an appointment with the fertility doctor today,” Shae said. Daenerys’ fists curled, and, absurdly, tears gathered in her eyes. The hope of relief snatched away was almost unbearable. Daenerys gave a nod, blinking away moisture.

“May I sit a moment?”

“Of course. May I fetch you some water? Tea?” Shae asked.

“Yes. Tea, thank you,” she said.

Daenerys sank into one of the overstuffed chairs, kneading the back of her neck beneath the coil of her braid. She rolled her neck, listening to the vertebrae crunch like tires on gravel. The soft trickle of the water feature reminded her of Dragonstone, where no matter how high you climbed, the ocean was never far away. Once, she and Vis splashed in the shallows in summer . . . it felt as if it belonged in another lifetime.

A glance at the magazines on the table featured a picture of Margaery Tyrell, the lovely and glamorous actress, and her beau Robb Stark on a yacht on the Sunset Sea. Another bore the image of her own face, looking harried and irritated as she barked into her cell. The headline read: _Dragon CEO Fallen Off Cloud Nine?_     

“Tea, my dear,” Shae said. Daenerys accepted the foam cup of hot tea with murmured thanks. She savored the rich, spicy mix as it slid down her throat. It was Braavosi if she remembered right.

“Rough day?” Shae asked. Daenerys smirked, gesturing to the array of magazines.

“I’m sure you’ve read of a more interesting sequence of events,” she said dryly. Shae gave a graceful shrug, the fitted gold-hued sweater clinging to her sleek curves.

“That magazine is a rag, but at least it’s entertaining. You know retreats to the Summer Isles are all the rage this summer, yeah?” Daenerys gave a reluctant snort of laughter, polishing off the last of the tea.

“I do have another masseur if you would prefer. He trained with Missy,” Shae said. Daenerys frowned.

“He?”

“Yes, he’s excellent. Knowledgeable, perfectly professional.”

Her first instinct was to refuse. Male attention had never been in short supply, not since she was thirteen. Public attention had hovered around her like an obnoxious glittery cloud since she was born. A wealthy heiress from an old and influential family like her mother marrying the mercurial and charming politician Aerys Targaryen had turned heads, and tongues wagged at the very public and sordid fallout of their divorce—made more torrid given her father’s tenure in public office.

Daenerys bowed her head and a knife of white-hot pain shot up the back of her neck. She blinked away tears, studying the ragged, bloody edges of her cuticles. A nervous habit, her mother had tried for years to break her of it. Daenerys exhaled a long, slow breath, caught between pain and embarrassment.

“I’ll book an hour,” she said. Shae patted her knee.

“You won’t regret it. Come on, you’ve earned some pampering.”

Shae led her to one of their rooms, and Daenerys felt her knees weaken at the thought of impending relief.

“I’ll get Jon. You get comfortable,” Shae said, squeezing her hand in passing.

“Thank you for working me in, Shae.”

“Think nothing of it, dear.”

The door shut behind her with a soft thump and Daenerys breathed a sigh. The soothing melody played through overhead speakers, the lighting dimmed to a golden ambiance. Daenerys stepped behind the changing screen and disrobed, shedding the flowing trousers in charcoal grey and black leather ankle boots, the sharp-shouldered suit jacket and ruffled crimson blouse. She paused to adjust the dragon pin on her velvet lapel, three dragons joined in a circle. Hastily she unwound her braids and tied her crimped hair into a sloppy bun.

Naked, she slipped under the sheet and blanket on the massage table. Gentle heat radiated from the table padded surface, a curved pillow supporting the backs of her knees. Daenerys screwed her eyes tight shut and tried the meditation techniques her counselor taught her, breathing in and out to a lengthening count of numbers. By the time her exhale reached eight, she heard a quiet knock.

“Come in,” she said, hating the way her voice warbled.

The sound of his step was muted by thick carpet, but soon there was a gentle tap on the table near her shoulder. Daenerys cracked open her eyes and was instantly grateful the dim light hid her expression. Jon was nothing like the sketchy image she imagined. Admittedly, she had little idea what a masseur _should_ look like, but the muscled, rugged person that met her eye certainly didn’t fit her suppositions. Shaggy black hair tied back, a short beard framing full lips, and those eyes—gods, those sooty lashes and rich dark eyes could tempt any woman, magnified by the lenses of his glasses. Simple, wire-rimmed frames, the noseband a bit crooked. Her heartbeat quickened, suddenly feeling vulnerable beneath the fragile protection of the sheet.

“Miss Dany, my name is Jon. I’ll be your masseur for today. Are there any areas you’d like to work on?” She blinked at the name, dimly remembering that is an alias—albeit a thin one—she’d given Shae. His voice too, was full of surprises. A rich, deep voice holding the burr of the North.

“My . . . my neck and shoulders,” she said in a small voice. Jon nodded, his expression composed, polite. One curly strand of hair fell loose from its tie to hang in his face.

“And light to medium pressure?”

“Yes.”

“Warm towels ok?”

“Yes.”

“Would you like scalp massage, as well?”

“Um, ok.”

Jon nodded, scratching notes on a notepad. Something about his manner was disarming, Daenerys felt some of her trepidation evaporate.

“Ok. I’ll get started. Just let me know if you need anything,” he said. The lights dimmed even lower, to a murky half-dark. Daenerys felt the tension ratchet up between her shoulders, in anxiety or anticipation, she wasn’t sure. Jon settled on a stool above her head.

“Scoot a bit farther up. We’ll start with your scalp.” Clutching the sheet to her chest, Daenerys squirmed toward the upper edge of the table.

“Good. Right there. Just relax,” Jon said, cupping her head.

Thick fingers parted her hair, smoothing along her scalp with gentle pressure. Nerves tingled at the touch, a low fission of pleasure. His thumbs glided along the muscles around the base of her skull, then down to press firmly where her neck and head joined. Missy usually paid attention to her neck and back, murmuring poetry in Valyrian. Daenerys had learned the old language at her mother’s knee, and the lilt of its syllables was soothing. The talk was distraction enough to allow Daenerys to relax. But she found that Jon’s silence was comfortable rather than grating.

After several minutes of his unhurried work, Daenerys forgot her trepidation. His hands rubbed behind her ears, then his thumb moved up to press at the crest of her forehead. Pleasure melted through her like butter on a hot skillet. Daenerys bit back a cry. Gods, that felt good.

“The pressure ok?” Jon asked. Even, his voice was caress, low in tone, roughened by that subtle northern burr. Daenerys blinked her eyes open only to be swallowed by those wide, dark eyes. His gaze felt warm, intensely focused.

“Yeah. Yeah, it’s ok,” she said. Daenerys closed her eyes, determined not to open them again during their allotted hour. She was here to relax, not ogle her masseur. The table’s heater kicked on, a fine vibration beneath her.

Jon brushed her hair out of the way, and she heard a faint click. A wet glug and Jon’s warm, lotion-slicked hand smoothed down the back of her neck. Yes, the smooth glide, the soft perfume of lavender, the perfect pressure on those angry, painful knots in her muscles. Jon’s hands were very warm, and the texture just the slightest bit rough. So massage wasn’t his only job. Missy’s hands were soft as silk given all the lotion she used with her clients.

Little by little, Jon kneaded and pressed and smoothed and pinched until she lay pliant under his touch. He moved from her neck to her shoulders to her upper chest along her collarbones in smooth, even sweeps. There it was, that warm, floating place, beyond worry, beyond pain. Daenerys simply existed, soothed and tended by a man with magic hands and the face of a young god . . . Oh _no_. Gods, she didn’t need this now. She did not need to be _attracted_ to her masseur.

“Dany, I’ll have you roll over now. Lay your head in the cushion,” Jon said.

Daenerys hurriedly obeyed, thankful to hide her burning face. She was perving on her masseur. This was the height of embarrassment. She should just end the session early and leave . . . a broken moan left her as Jon smoothed his hands down either side of her spine, pressing hard enough to shift muscles and undo hidden knots of tension. How hadn’t she noticed him peeling back the sheet to her waist? Daenerys’ fists clenched on the table, wishing she could melt into a puddle and drip away down a drain. She waited for the chuff of laughter, or an awkward fumbling away from the table. Neither happened. The silence was unbearable.

“Relax, Dany,” Jon’s voice said, quiet and unobtrusive. Tears of gratitude gathered at the corners of her eyes, hidden in the curve of the pillow. Even if his expression mocked her, she was grateful for his easy professionalism.

Jon’s hands performed delicate work, then followed by the broad even pressure of his forearms, smoothed by sweet-smelling lotion. Even the chafe of the hair on his arms was pleasant. A sparkling wave of feeling danced behind her eyes after each stroke, every nerve shivered in delight. A fine dew of sweat rose on her skin. She craved more, the heat sank in her blood like fever, on her skin, her back where he touched, her breasts, between her thighs . . .

Jon’s hands lifted from her skin and she nearly cried out at the loss. After a couple clicks and rustles in the corner of the room, Daenerys understood. _Get a grip!_ she told herself sternly. Now not only was she perving on her masseur, she was now aroused. Very aroused, she noticed, clenching her thighs around a sweet, wet ache. She thanked the gods for small mercies. Lying on her stomach, at least he couldn’t see her hardened nipples.

“Warm towel,” Jon said in warning.

The searing damp heat was a shock, but far from an unpleasant one. Daenerys hummed, deeming that sound to be acceptable. Jon pressed the towel down, smoothing away excess lotion before peeling it away before it became too cool to be comfortable. The brief loss of contact was needed to restore a proper frame of mind. Jon was a fantastic masseur, but that was his _job_. He was in no way responsible for her body’s reaction, or any of the needy, desperate thoughts that came to mind.

The sheet and blanket were straightened back over her back. It was delicate balance, made with care, the need to access her body while preserving her relaxation and modesty. Daenerys marveled at the implicit trust in massage. A person naked before a stranger, alone in a dark room. Jon moved down her arms, kneading the thin skin on her wrists and palms. Daenerys concentrated on keeping her breaths smooth and even. Gently, Jon tucked her arms back under the sheet, moving down to work on her legs and feet. As she shifted, a faint wafting of her arousal rose up. 

“Tender spot?” Jon asked, his thumb lightening the pressure on her calf. He sensed her sudden tension. Her face on fire, Daenerys forced herself to relax.

“Yeah, a little,” she lied, “running stairs on Aegon’s Hill makes them tight.”

“I hear you. That last bit up to Targaryen Palace makes me want to die. My dog doesn’t seem to mind, though,” Jon murmured, before returning to his patient work.

It rested on her tongue to offer to join him on a run, anything to prolong their interaction. She dismissed it out of hand. How pathetic would he think she was? Some deeper part of her mind was storing up details of pour over later in the privacy of her queen-sized bed, the exact texture of his hands, the warmth of him, the magic channeled through his touch.

Jon worked his way to her feet, kneading the arch with his thumbs. Daenerys bit her lip around any more embarrassing sounds, despite how good it felt.  A soft chirp announced the end of their session as Jon wrapped hot towels around both feet. Despite the alarm, Jon seemed in no hurry to end their session. Instead, he smoothed more lotion up her calf, cupping the muscle with gentle pressure. Hidden knots of tension shivered and relaxed. He did the same at the small of her back, then again at the base of her neck. Through his subtle shifting, she caught a whiff of his scent. Soap and woodsy aftershave, with the faint tang of sweat. The room was very warm, after all.

“That ends our session today, Dany. I’ll leave you to dress. Remember to drink plenty of fluids,” Jon said, with a farewell squeeze on her shoulder. The words steadied her. Professional, polite, considerate. He was exactly what she needed today, in Missy’s absence. The problem was, Daenerys was left with only the taste of disappointment. She wanted more.       

 

~

 

Jon closed the door behind him with a soft click, as he had a thousand times before with a thousand different clients. Massages were a sensual experience, one made awkward when done with a stranger. People made noise when touched just right, it was a sign he was doing his job. Professionalism came easy to him. It made him a good masseur. Ever since mastering the art, he liked to impart healing, comfort and relaxation to his clients. He slipped into almost a trance, focusing on the muscle and bone beneath the skin, sweeping away the curled knots of tension and pain. With that focus, he could tune out other sensory input. He’d given massages to every shape and size of woman—men too. Beautiful or plain, overweight or thin, it made little difference to him.

This time was different. This time, he was hard as steel.

Jon made his way down the narrow hallway and into the laundry closet. The door was solid against his back, the room humid and warm as dryers hummed and washers rumbled. Jon exhaled a shaky breath, wiping the last of the massage lotion from his hands. Gods, what great fucking timing for his libido to rear its ugly head! It had been years since his high school girlfriend Ygritte dumped him, and female companionship had been superficial and mostly physical since. He got regularly laid, but now his throbbing dick was determined to puncture a hole in his trousers.

“Fuck,” he said, trying to breathe it down.

He closed his eyes and saw again the silky knot of her hair, a determined curl draped against her nape. The graceful slope of her back, the twin dimples at the base, just above the luscious curves of her buttocks. Had he dreamed up the scent of her pussy, so rich and female? That _sound_ . . . Jon thumped the back of his head hard on the door, fisting his cock through his trousers. He hadn’t imagined that. Leaned over the table as he kneaded her back with the heels of his hands, she had moaned. An entirely unobjectionable sound by the current context, but with _her_ —it woke some lustful demon inside him. It didn’t help that his cock was inches away from her mouth at the time.

Jon exhaled a sharp breath through his teeth. His cock pulsed through layers of cotton and denim. He was at work, for gods’ sake! He couldn’t jack off to the thought of a client. A perfectly innocent ( _gorgeous_ ) client. He also couldn’t walk down the hall to his next client in his current state. Mrs. Pepperidge, a matron in her eighties with gouty arthritis in every joint, would object.

“Damn it,” he said. It was a credit to the mysterious Dany that even with the mental image of Mrs. Pepperidge’s crepe-y skin and dowager’s hump didn’t kill his erection. Nope, that just turned his thoughts back to the milky pale perfection of her skin, warm and smooth beneath his hands. There was a mole high on her left shoulder, her littlest toe had crooked nail. He might know her as well as a lover, he mused. The most private secrets allured him. Those high, bouncy breasts, her nipples pert against the sheet, that mouthwatering whiff of her pussy . . . fuck, fuck, _fuck_!

Jon yanked off his glasses and marched to the sink. The wrenched on the tap, and doused his face with cold water. Over and over, that cold sharp jolt, little trickles creeping down his neck and wetting the collar of his polo. There. Mercifully, his arousal abated. A rap at the door. _Taptaptap_.

“Jon, are you in there?” Shae’s accented voice floated through the door.

“Yeah, I’ll be right out. Just washing some linens,” Jon said.

“Ok. Your next client is in Room Four.”

“On my way,” he said, scrubbing his face and neck dry on a clean towel. He crammed all those thoughts of Dany into a box in his head. She was Missy’s client; it was chance that she’d been paired with him. It would never happen again. He needed to get used to that.        


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pining ensues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In honor of the Boatsex-versary today, I give you the new chapter. Enjoy!

Chapter 2

 

Sweat streamed down his face. His hair had fallen loose from its tie and one curl bounced annoyingly against his cheek as he ran. His leg muscles screamed with each stride, each breath sawing, his heart thundering in his ears. More speed. _A block left . . ._   Ghost loped on the leash, matching him step for step. _Half a block left . . ._ The old Targaryen Palace shone under floodlights ahead. The sky was a leaden grey, thick humid air promising rain. A stitch burned in his side. Gods, _almost there . . ._

Jon summited the last stair with a last burst of energy. Jon pulled up, folding his hands behind his head, sucking in deep gasps. Ghost circled around his legs, his tail wagging madly.

“Aye, you’re faster than me, as always,” Jon wheezed, grinning. Whew. He loved that burn in his leg muscles, that deep ache in his chest ebbing away to a subtle euphoria. A fierce sense of accomplishment. He’d conquered the bastard.

This early in the morning, there were only a smattering of people gathered on the plaza. Tourists, by the look of them, marveling at the spectacle of the Targaryen Palace behind ornate wrought iron gates. By any reckoning, it was impressive. The Targaryen sigil roared on a massive plate, brilliant in red gold on a background of polished slate. Though their numbers dwindled and government had shifted to a more egalitarian parliament, any man or woman of power invoked an echo of Targaryen strength.

A flash of pale hair out of the corner of his eye. Jon’s heart leapt to his throat. Oh fuck. She did say she ran the stairs on Aegon’s Hill . . .

“Ghost heel, you big lout,” Jon said with a tug on the lead. He yanked his hair into a semblance of order, peering through the clusters of gawking tourists—the woman was at least six inches taller than Dany, neat-featured and cute, her hair a spill of honey blond, walking arm in arm with a girlfriend. Not her.

Jon shook his head, marveling at how the mysterious Dany Steele snared him. The bewildering hunger hadn’t waned in the week since he’d seen her. Not by a longshot. Not only was it inconveniently lustful dreams that left him irritated and hard, but heart-stopping near-glimpses while he was getting morning tea before work, walking home from the laundromat, or running stairs with Ghost. Creamy white skin, pale hair, that little mole high on her shoulder, that fucking _moan_ . . . Shit. His heart thudded as some blood thundered south. Jon exhaled an irritated breath.

He’d surreptitiously poured over her file at The Oasis, mooning idiot he was. A massage once or twice weekly for the past month. Missy’s neat cursive detailed the problem areas in her neck and back. Nothing else. No contact information, no health history, not a measly scrap of information. Consummate professional she was, Missy didn’t gossip about her clients. Not that Jon could summon the guts to ask when they crossed paths.

Jon pulled out his smartphone, finding two texts from Sam, one from Arya, and one from Tormund, his boss at the contractor’s office. A tap opened the text from Tormund.

**The fucker Greyjoy called in again Can u pick up a shift 2day?**  Succinct and to the point, as always. A smarter person than Jon wouldn’t answer their phone on their day off, but Jon had never been accused of being smart.

**What time?** he tapped back.

**9 to 9 The Westerling project needs 2 b finished ASAP I’ll owe you**

Jon muttered a curse under his breath. Another twelve? On his day off? The bells within the Sept of Baelor chimed the hour along with fanciful embellishments to wow the tourists. Eight o’ clock now. Time to go home, shower, grab breakfast. Maybe working himself to exhaustion would quench the erotic dreams. After wanking himself blind for the past week, a night of untroubled sleep was appealing.

“A girlfriend would work too,” he said wryly to himself. Working two jobs, he barely had time to sleep, much less find a girlfriend. One night stands after going to the pub with his buddies was the summation of his romantic life lately.

Ghost, a huge white mutt—the lady at the shelter swore he was part direwolf—nudged his hip with a big wet nose.

“Don’t worry, buddy. Sam’ll check in on you,” Jon said.

**I’ll be there U owe me**

Tormund answered immediately: **Thx Snow U r a lifesaver I’ll buy u a beer after work**

**That doesn’t mean anything U and ur wife own a pub**

**Then I know the beer’s good! My lady misses you**

Jon snorted. 

“Come, Ghost. Let’s go home,” he said, tucking his phone back in his pocket.

Heat radiated from the concrete beneath his trainers. A listless breeze tugged at the flag flying over the Targaryen palace: nine gold shields on an azure field halved with a black axe and sickle. King’s Landing stretched out beneath him, the streetlights scattered jewels of orange and green light, the horizon lost in gauzy swathes of mist. The view was part of the reason he subjected himself to this torture six days a week. No time to relish it now. Jon took a steadying breath and picked up the pace down the stair. Only five minutes until the next El train south toward his building.

 

~

 

Daenerys passed a hand over her burning eyes, leaning back in her office chair. A sizable dent made in her emails to colleagues, assistants detailing upcoming court dates, arraignments and board meetings. The war with the Harpy Triumvirate raged on. Rakharo of her security detail sent a weekly dossier detailing the latest threats on her life. The promise of torture, rape, and murder, as long as she spearheaded the effort to block the Triumvirate’s interests both in Westeros and abroad. Standard fare. The words were empty, and bounced off her mental armor without a scratch. Vis vociferously fought her devotion to such work. In his mind any energy not focused on Rising Dragon Inc. was energy wasted. The threats underscored his point.

Another folder held the wedding plans, adequately labeled _The Hot Mess_. Her cursor swerved determinedly away from that. The caterer backed out to serve some party in the River district. The florist threatened to level a ridiculous surcharge to ferry the blooms she wanted from the Reach district. Daenerys stifled a yawn. She could stare down pitiless lawyers and hardened criminals, endure deaths threats all day, but she hadn’t the mental fortitude to argue with an uppity dress designer. No, not tonight. Daenerys pushed back from the sleek computer, incongruous compared to the ornate ironwood desk, polished to a rich patina.

Alone in the office at this hour, she stretched her arms over her head. The sharp-shouldered suit jacket stretched taut across her shoulders. Rigid muscles ached. She sidled close to the window. Floor-to-ceiling one-way windows filled the eastern wall, offering a breathtaking view of the city and Blackwater Bay beyond. By city ordinance, no building was built higher than the old Targaryen Palace on Aegon’s Hill. The thorny red-stoned towers rose above her building, lit by the cool glow of floodlights. A constant reminder of Targaryen heritage, as Vis was fond of saying. Daenerys glimpsed her distorted reflection in the window. Circles under her eyes. The white silk blouse hung listless. She’d lost weight.  

Daenerys kneaded the back of her neck, an angry knot of tension clenched like fist in her muscle. A glance at the clock said it was half past nine. She’d been in the office since five forty-five this morning. Long past time for her to leave the damned emails for the night. A traitorous thought wondered if The Oasis was still open, and if Jon was working. The memory of his hands on her sent a warm shiver through her body. The first flicker of arousal she’d felt in months.

Daenerys heaved a sigh, eyeing the ruby ring on her left hand. Daario Naharis, a wealthy businessman from Tyrosh, was a partner of Viserys’s. His roguish charm and easy humor was disarming and welcome after those long, ugly years building their company back up from nothing. But now . . . now so many things were different.

Her smartphone chirped.

**U r STILL @ the office???**

“Three question marks, really?” she said under her breath. The pain in the back of her neck intensified.

Would tonight be like so many others of late, with Daario draped over the sofa, his dyed blue hair in disarray, sniping about this guest on their guest list, or the how haggard she looked, and she had a headache _again_ tonight? The thought made her stomach churn with a familiar acid burn of anxiety. Sex was too godsdamned difficult. She could never unwind enough to enjoy herself. It stung Daario’s masculine pride that he couldn’t get her off with any regularity.

**Finishing up. Another hour. C u at home** , she tapped back. Let him chew on _that_ for now. A quick computer search found The Oasis’s dinky website. OPEN UNTIL 11 PM. Missy would probably be home with Grey at this hour. But maybe Jon . . .  The phone chirped over and over again scrolling increasingly irate messages from Daario. Daenerys tapped the lock screen and tucked her phone in her purse. Tonight she’d do something for herself for a change!

The upper floor of Rising Dragon was deserted, florescent lighting a muted, yellow-hued glow. The cool, humming silence held a strange quality, a yawning, almost malevolent emptiness. Daenerys hurried to the lift. The foyer rose to soaring ceilings, a cathedral of glass and polished ironwood and wrought iron. Mr. Strong manned the security desk. Her tension eased by increments. His broad bulk and warm voice always reassured her.

“Headed home for the night, Miss Targaryen?” he said with a white smile.

“Finally, yes. Thank you Belwas.”

“Shall I call your car?” he asked. Daenerys considered a moment, then shook her head.

“No thank you. I’ll take the El.”

A frown puckered Mr. Strong’s smooth brown skin.

“Be careful, Miss. Goodnight,” he said.

“I will. Say hello to your partner for me,” Daenerys threw him a reassuring smile over her shoulder as she clicked across the polished marble floor. The Oasis wasn’t far.

 

~

 

Jon scrubbed his wet hair with a towel. A deep ache pervaded his body, eased by the long hot shower. His building was older, trending toward shabby, but the hot water almost never ran out. Westerling, some West district bureaucrat, requested a complete reno of his King’s Landing brownstone. Today he’d helped Tormund with the fiddly detail work: custom crown molding, installing the cabinetry, paint, and a dozen other little things. His boss had been generous: he had the next two days off, which made for a surprise long weekend. Maybe he could book a train home to see Bran and Arya.

The white glow of his smartphone caught the corner of his eye. Without his glasses, the print was a soft myopic blur at this distance. Jon wiped steam from the fogged lenses and pulled them on. A text from Shae **Da. St. requesting a late appointment. Missy left for the night and Ros is with another client. Can you help?? So sorry Jon No other choice**

Jon’s heart thudded hard against his ribs. _Dany_. He looked at the time stamp. Shae’d sent the message ten minutes ago. The Oasis was a five-minute walk from his apartment. Adrenaline zinged through his nerves and all the weariness of the day melted away. _Dany_. Close enough to touch, breathing in the scent of her . . . _damn_. Just the thought had him half-hard.

“Get your shit together, Jon,” he told himself sternly.          

**I’ll b there in ten** , he texted. The phone pinged a half second later:   **THANK YOU!!!**

Five minutes later he was dressed in a black polo and jeans, wet hair pulled back in a floppy half bun on top of his head. He rapped on 302, hearing the sweet, mournful strains of the cello through the door. Sam’s broad good-natured face appeared in the sliver of door beyond the chain.

“Jon! Give us a moment, I’ll get the chain.”

The door slammed shut, with a tinkle of metallic fiddling. Sam reopened the door and Jon was swamped by warm golden light and the rich spicy scent of Pentoshi takeout. Jon’s stomach gave a liquid grumble. The sandwich and crisps that made up his lunch was too long ago.

“Who is it?” a female voice said behind Sam—his wife Gilly. Jon stomped down on a shoot of envy. Sam’s easy domestic bliss made his own life look wan and colorless by comparison. Gods, he dropped everything to go to the client he was mooning over. He chose not to dissect that train of thought further.

“It’s only Jon!” Sam shouted back.

“Jon? Oh give him my love! Little Sam, supper!”

“’Evening Gilly,” Jon said.

“’Evening, Jon. Do you want to come in for a cuppa--”

A higher voice interrupted with something indistinguishable, but apparently contrary, for Gilly’s voice rose in counterpoint: “You said ‘five more minutes’ twenty minutes ago, little lad! Come wash up for supper!” Sam’s smile was equal parts proud and apologetic.

“So sorry. Little Sam’s become quite the cellist. We’re hoping to get him into Dragonstone Academy next fall. You were saying?” Sam said. Jon grinned, feeling a reflection of Sam’s pride. Big Sam had been his best friend ever since he moved in, and Little Sam was smart kid. Sweet. Reminded him of Bran.

“I don’t mean to interrupt your supper, Sam. I got called in to work. I’ll just be gone about an hour. Check in on Ghost for me before you put Little Sam to bed?” Jon asked.

“Of course! Happy to!” Sam said with an easy grin, “truth be told, minding Ghost has gotten Little Sam off the train of demanding his own dog.”

“Thanks, Sam. Ghost’s happy to have the company,” Jon said, turning toward the stair, “He’s already been fed, so don’t mind his begging. I’ll be back soon.”

“’Evening, Jon!” Sam called after him.

The evening breeze was fresh with the briny scent of the sea, the sky overhead darkly overcast. A few people made their way down winding sidewalks, bicycles darted between lumbering buses. Heat radiated from the sidewalk, the buildings, clinging like a wet blanket. Jon loped across the street as the garish blue-hued streetlights clicked on. The grade steepened as he neared Visenya’s Hill. Jon tried to stifle the jolt of jittery energy. For the thousandth time, he wished for a cigarette. The sweet smoke curled in his lungs would give him a measure of calm. The bell chimed as he shoved open the door. Shae unfurled herself from the office chair.

“That was quick,” she said with smirk.

“I live seven blocks away,” Jon said with a defensive shrug. Shae’s dark eyes held his, and Jon squared to meet the challenge in them.

As the proprietor, Shae was a stickler for professionalism. When Ros crushed on Mr. Baelish, Shae had threatened her with firing if there was so much as a whiff of impropriety. At the end of the day, Ros had two kids to take care of, and that was that. If Jon remembered right, Baelish turned out to be a creep, perving on a redhead girl half his age. Locked up in Iron Island Penitentiary serving fifteen years.

Shae must have been satisfied in what she saw. Dismissed with a graceful jerk of her chin, her silken cap of black hair rippling around her face.   

“She’s in Room Two.”

Jon made his way down the hall, sucking in slow, deep breaths. Calm. Professional. He paused at the laundry closet, scrubbing his hands clean. Normally, he’d review his notes of the previous couple sessions. But Dany had etched herself into his mind in startling, vivid detail. Jon rapped gently on the door.

The room was dim and warm. Faint mournful strains of a cello filtered through the speaker. There she was, lying on the table, sheet tucked up to her chin. The crisp sheet fell over Dany’s body like a lover. Sweet secrets lurked in those rich shadows. Gods, still as beautiful as he remembered. Her blond hair was loose this time, a long silken spill. Mm, he never thought he had a thing for hair, but he wanted to thread his fingers through it, pet her head, bury his face in it and breathe in the smell of her. The room was so dark, he couldn’t pinpoint the exact shade, or even see the details of her face clearly, something he now passionately lamented.

Jon gulped, reaching for his usual detached calm. Jon tapped the table near her shoulder. Thin eyelids lined with long mascara-darkened lashes fluttered open. Her eyes must be a pale color, blue or green. They didn’t swallow the light like a darker shade would.

“Hey, Miss Dany. I’m Jon. I’ll be your masseur again today. Any changes since the last visit?” Good, his voice was steady, calm. Detached, Zen. Something clicked inside him with massage, a serene place of focus. It was a faint relief he could still reach that place. He had a good memory. With routine clients, he had their problems areas and preferences nailed.

“No,” she said, chewing on her lower lip. Smooth voice, faint upper crust Crown district accent. Lovely mouth. Full pink lips . . . oh fuck. The zen-like bubble wobbled. Blood was surging south.

“W—Would you like something similar to our last session?” he asked.

“Yes, please,” she said.

With scalp massage, he could indulge his wish with her hair, kneading all those tense spots and ogle the details of her face up close. If he started with her on her back, he could hopefully get his body back in line before she could sneak glances at him. Jon debated the pros and cons for an uncomfortably long time.

“Erm, ok. I’ll get started,” he said, settling on the stool. The angle was better for hard-on concealment. He urged her to move toward the edge of the table. Oh sweet Mother, from the corner of his eye, he saw the subtle jiggle of her breasts as she scooted. Already half-hard, his cock surged to full salute.

“Here ok?” she asked.

Jon sputtered out something hopefully coherent. Sweat dewed under his polo. Beet-faced and tongue-tied. Luckily massage didn’t call for chitchat, and the dim lighting was a godssend. Jon relaxed in the rhythm of his work, fingers gliding smoothly along her scalp. Seeking out tension and trigger points behind the ears, at the occiput.

He gobbled up little details of her face. The slope of her nose, lovely thick eyebrows, the cute curves of her ears. The lobes were pierced. Even through the murky dark, he wouldn’t forget her face now. Oh, that sweet little shudder when he pressed at her crown. Gods. Jon clenched his jaw, reaching for the lotion tube clipped to his belt. A blob in his palm, smoothed over his hands to warm it. A smooth glide up the back of her neck. Mm, he wanted to soak up that warm energy shimmering on her skin. Like moonlight on the water.

“Are you all right?” her voice startled him. Her bright gaze sucked him in, like a tractor beam on a sci-fi movie.

“Hmm?” Jon grunted.

“You’re scowling. Is everything ok?” she asked.

“Yes, just a headache. Don’t worry. It’s your job to relax,” Jon said, teasing. The lie slipped off his tongue easily. _I’m trying not to think about how hard you make me._ Yikes. He didn’t want to be a creep that used massage to feel up women. Despite his trepidation, his dick throbbed, insistent. Her answering smile crinkled the corners of her eyes. This time it was his heart that gave a sharp flip.

“Ok. Relax. Got it,” she said. A tremor of laughter shivered through him. He was in serious trouble.

Jon took a steadying breath. Zen. Calm. Unhurried, no wasted motion. The bubble closed around him as he worked his way down both sides of her neck, the weight of her skull relaxed and trusting in his hands. Sweeps along her jawline, a press of his thumb along her collarbone. The whisper of the sheet brushed his knuckles. Boundaries. Good.

He loosened the drape of the sheet and instructed her to roll over. A soft gust of her scent and warmth washed over him, sweat and floral soap and . . . _yum_. Musky woman smell. No mistaking it this time. Not good. Now he was thinking about her pussy. Sucking in breaths of that sexy smell, tasting her juice, licking and loving all her juicy pink girl parts. Jon’s mouth flooded with saliva. Gods, he was actually drooling. His cock throbbed. Fuck, had he ever been this hard? Nope. Enough of that. Fucking _enough_ of this juvenile horndog bullshit. She was a fucking client and he was a fucking professional, damn it. _Shut. That. Shit. Down._

Wiping lotion from his hands on the hem of the sheet, Jon cradled the silky weight of her hair, draping it over the table edge. The ends brushed his wrists in a ticklish caress. A delicate sensation that went straight to his dick. Just her hair. Who knew? Jon poured more lotion, paying attention to the tension in her neck and shoulders, careful not to press too hard. Deeper tissue massage would be better therapeutically speaking, but she was sensitive. High-strung, nervy. Like a thoroughbred.

He steeled himself for the effleurage along either side of her spine. Last time it had been . . . memorable. Shifting to conceal his erection, Jon smoothed his hands down her back with light pressure. Slick with lotion, his hands glided down. So smooth. No moan this time, just a puff of exhaled breath. Jon bit back an absurd feeling of disappointment. Did he _want_ to be erotically tortured by an unobtainable woman? How fucked up was that? His hands moved of their own will, performing the same motion again. A soft little whimper. He could picture her biting the plush softness of her lower lip with those white teeth to stifle the sound. Jon exhaled a frustrated breath.

Moving to one side, he sought his trance with fierce determination. After this session was over, he’d ask Shae to assign her to another masseur if Missy was unavailable. This shit wasn’t good for either of them. He’d probably end sucking on her toes or proposing if he had to sweat through this again. Freaking her out with his own kinky bullshit. He finished on her back and legs. He returned to sweep down each arm with even pressure of his forearm. A lot of tension lodged in her wrists. Working on a computer, or with pen and paper. Maybe she was an artist. Jon kneaded at the tendons in her wrists, relishing her quiet hum. He moved to the other side, and a gem’s glitter caught the light. On a very important finger.

“Fuck,” he whispered.           

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dany and Jon are given a little nudge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So . . . this fic took a little turn. Enjoy!

Chapter 3

 

The throbbing ache between her thighs was unbearable. Even the chafe of the sheet was almost too much against her overstimulated skin. Everywhere his hands landed was an erogenous zone. The back of her calf, really? A shimmery glow of pleasure throbbed at her core, her skin felt thin, dewed with sweat. During every torturous moment of the massage, Daenerys used every ounce of mental focus on staying _still_. Staying _quiet_. Red-faced. Panting. Flooded with lube.

Her crush—and there really was no better way to categorize it now—was just that: _hers_. _Ȳdrago drēje._ High Valyrian, the language of her ancestors, now codified as the language of law, spoke simply. _Speak truth._ A maxim Daenerys carried through her life. A servant of justice, a mouthpiece of truth. High ideals, but at the moment, it was hard to think coherently.

Jon. Gods, _Jon_. He stalked in the room wrapped in a different sort of energy. Focused. Strangled almost. In her shameless staring as he massaged her scalp, his face was set in a ferocious scowl. Brooding, sexy. Even before he began melting her mind in earnest, that gentle teasing, the shared joke. Not good. No matter the state of her relationship with Daario, strained and withered though it was, she was still engaged. A cage of wrought gold.

Daenerys heard him whisper something as he kneaded her arm. A chirp announced the end of the allotted hour. Daenerys quelled a rush of disappointment. This was a good thing. This situation was profoundly unhealthy, seeking nonsexual physical touch from a stranger. She was starved for it. Touch. Comfort. Jon wasn’t responsible for her crush, the way her heart leapt at the sight of his half-smile, or the way the delicate rasp of his calluses had her teetering close to orgasm. The swift thud of her heartbeat felt abnormally loud in her ears.

“That’s it. I’ll leave you to dress. Remember to take care of yourself. Drink plenty of fluids,” Jon said, his tone a touch brusque. Daenerys almost cried out at the loss of his touch. Inside rang a greedy chant of _more, more, more_! She rose up on her elbows, gobbling up the sight of his strong back, the way his ass looked in his jeans.

“Thank you, Jon.” He half-turned. In the dark she couldn’t read his expression.

“You’re welcome, Dany. I’ll meet you in the hall with some water.”

The door shut behind him with a soft thump. Daenerys buried her burning face in the hem of the sheet and tried her best to collect herself. Deep breaths. She let her mind go blank and white, pliable. It was a trick she’d learn to manage stress in the boardroom or courtroom. Words were just sound. Emotions were just chemicals in her brain.

Lawyers learned to discern the trick of rhetoric, spin. Jon was talented and empathetic, friendly. His other clients must feel the same way Daenerys does. The thought reminded her of Jeyne, an intern at her office who relished the effect of her sexual attention on men. That thought twisted the sexual glow into oblivion.

On shaky legs, Daenerys climbed off the table and dressed. The fabric of her clothes rasped against her sensitized skin. Daenerys tied her hair back in a sloppy ponytail. A glance at her phone found seventeen texts from Daario, another three from Vis. She shoved the phone back into her purse, messages unread. Daario could scold her in person.

Jon waited with a foam cup of water in the hall. The soft lighting seemed too bright after the dim massage room. Gods, he was even more handsome. Rich brown eyes behind his glasses. The bold bone structure. The smooth well-groomed beard framing his mouth. That _mouth_. That body: compact and muscled and . . . _down girl_. Daenerys accepted the cup with thanks, chewing on her lower lip. The cold water was soothing on her throat. An awkward air breathed between them. Had her feelings been obvious? Daenerys felt her cheeks heat.

“Thank you again, Jon. You’re a great masseur,” she said.

As a lawyer and businesswoman, it behooved her to understand little tics in body language and expression. The talent had been honed to a near sixth sense. The compliment seemed to make him uncomfortable. Jon raked a hand through his hair, yanking it loose from its tie. Black curls fell against his jawline. His answering shrug was tight. The fabric of his black polo strained against broad shoulders and muscular arms.

“You’re welcome. Come back anytime.” Daenerys had an ear for catching lies. His deep voice with a trace of that lovely northern accent sounded genuine. Daenerys managed a small smile.

“I’ll talk to Shae about my next appointment,” she said. Jon shifted his weight and cleared his throat.

“Shae went home. She left me to lock up for the night.”

 _Alone_. With a warren of warm, comfortable rooms. Mood music. Blankets.

“Oh.” The inanity of the word made her wince.

A fantasy burst fully-formed in her mind. Some smooth lead-in to a kiss. Pulling him back into the room and showing him in explicit detail how his massage had affected her. A fun erotic romp with a near-stranger. Her mouth watered at the thought. In her head, she was confident, relaxed. No hang-ups, no freezing, no invasive anxiety. That Daenerys belonged in someone else’s world. Not hers.

The silence was growing uncomfortable. _Say something!_ Jon watched her, his face set in a polite, attentive expression.  

“Oh. Well, goodnight then,” Daenerys blurted. A pause. Jon glanced at the clock on the wall. Eleven fifteen. Damn, it was late.

“Hey, it’s getting late. Give me a second to lock up and I’ll walk out with you,” Jon said.

“Ok.” The word fell out of her head.

No, no, _no_ she should gently extricate herself from this situation and march her ass home to her undeniably and justifiably irate fiancé. That logical voice in her head was growing smaller, its nattering mosquito whine held no power. Jon’s quiet, uncomplicated energy was soothing—though a simple touch of his hands made her a frothing sex-crazed creature. Daenerys took a seat in the deserted waiting room as Jon bundled up used linens and tossed them in a hamper. He checked and locked each of the room doors, turned off the lights, emptied the trash bins.

“Ready,” Jon said, Shae’s keys jangling from his finger. Daenerys stood, tugging her jacket hem straight.

He shoved open the door to find the gale of a fierce rainstorm. Daenerys breathed in a fresh, cool air. The rain striking the pavement and roofs created a splashing din. In the light of the blue streetlight, the wind rippled the sheets of rain like unseen hands. Thunder rumbled overhead. A sharp spike of lightning arched through the clouds. Usually, Daenerys loved rainstorms. But not now when she was without a coat or umbrella. In a white silk shirt, full makeup, and spike heels.

“Whew, it’s really coming down!” Jon said, letting the door slide closed. A gust of cool, rain-scented air followed him. The waiting room was dark save for the soft gold accent lights. Like candlelight. Quiet, save for the humming central air unit. Isolated from the noise and trouble of the world beyond. The silence stretched, uncomfortable in the best way.

“You wouldn’t happen to have a car, would you?” Daenerys asked, breaking the moment into shards. Jon grinned and shook his head. Gods, he should smile more often. That flash of white teeth framed by his beard, the crinkle at the corners of his eyes carved itself into her memory in heart-rending detail.

“Sorry. I have my license, but living in the city, I don’t need a car,” Jon said. He gave her an assessing glance, and the sidelong look said he was laughing at her.

“Sharp dressed lady like you doesn’t have a car?” he asked, with a note of teasing. Daenerys bit back a smile, along with several possible responses. In the aftermath of her parents’ divorce, after her mother’s long cancer battle—leaving her and Vis almost penniless—the everyday cost of her car service and security detail would have made her retch.

“I took the El here,” Daenerys said gloomily. Now Jon did laugh, a husky chuckle.

“Oh no! The train stop is eleven blocks away.”

“Got it in one. And I didn’t bring my umbrella,” Daenerys said. Jon flicked his chin, tossing his hair from his eyes.

“I bet it’s cute. Polka dots.” Daenerys didn’t know whether to laugh or bristle at him.

“Black on the outside. The inside lining has blue sky and fluffy clouds.”

“Practical and a little fun,” Jon said with that devastating sexy grin. _Danger_. Danger zone. Joking, bonding. She was already in deep, crushing hard on him.

“That’s me,” Daenerys said, a little choked. Jon didn’t seem to notice her husky tone. Instead, he cracked the door open again. No break in sight. In fact, it looked like it was raining harder.

“I wish I could help. The bus stop is six blocks away, and the next one won’t come for another fifteen minutes.”

“What about you?” she asked. Jon shrugged.

“I only live seven blocks away. I’ll get soaked, but there’s hot cocoa waiting for me when I get home.”

“Your girlfriend makes it for you?”

A transparent fishing question that made her wince inwardly. Jon eyed her and shrugged.

“No girlfriend. Just me and my mutt. But my neighbor’s a good friend. His wife makes the best hot chocolate.”

“With the little marshmallows?”

“No, better. Real chocolate, a dust of cinnamon . . . and a slug of whiskey.” Daenerys rolled her eyes in exaggerated delight.

“Mm, that sounds like heaven.”

“I’m sure your husband will make you some if you ask.” There was a hint of sharpness in his tone that she wondered at. She made the ring no secret, and hadn’t flirted with him. Not until now anyway. Her bodily reactions, though powerful (mind-altering), were entirely involuntary.

“Fiancé. And I don’t think so. His idea of creativity in the kitchen is the takeout menu drawer. Me too.”

The air between them chilled. Daenerys bit back a shiver. It raised Daario between them, slicing painfully through the hint of flirtation. She shouldn’t get her feelings hurt. It was eleven shades of wrong to use Jon to make herself feel better. He was just so damn easy to talk to. Devastatingly hot and a magician with his hands. Women of King’s Landing beware. A triple threat.

“Whiskey will have to do for us. Goodnight, Jon.” She congratulated herself on the even words, the tone a fraction cooler.

“Goodnight, Dany.” Jon said.

She didn’t wait for more pleasantries.

Squaring her shoulders, she marched out into the rain. The deluge was a cold assault, a heavy pounding of her head and back. Soaked to her skin before she’d made it a block. A passing thought said she could call her car, but in her current mood, a walk in the rain would be restorative. Penitent, even. Flirting with Jon was wrong, given their relative status. It wasn’t fair to Jon or Daario. The cold undid all of Jon’s patient work relaxing her. Tension sang through her muscles, both to generate warmth and conceal her pebbled nipples in the drape of her suit jacket.

Heedless of her clinging clothes and ruined heels, she stomped through puddles and stalked down the steep grade toward the train station. There weren’t many clubs or restaurants in this area, so the crowds were thin. Grim commuters ambushed by the storm. A handful of passerby marched with her at the streetlight. The white florescent glow of the El train wavered ahead through sheets of rain. Thunder roared and echoed, lightning darted between the clouds. Cold rain pounded down. Daenerys clenched her jaw to keep her teeth from chattering.

A tall man in a thick overcoat wove on his feet from the mouth of an alleyway. Drunk. Beer fumes clung to him, along with an oily slick of body odor. Probably homeless. The commuters rippled around him with determined indifference, like water around a river stone.

Daenerys edged to one side of the sidewalk, hemmed in by a bench. The man staggered into her, hard. A step back and her ankle twisted. She exhaled a gasp of pain.

“Watch your step, ser!” she said sharply. The man staggered again, an arm sliding around her shoulders for balance. A cold metal circle pressed against her back.

_Gun._

Daenerys cast her eye around wildly for help. No one within shouting distance. Oh gods.

“Follow me into the alley quiet, bitch, or I shoot you through the kidney and you bleed out in the gutter.” Gutteral, heavily-accented Common.

“Take my wallet and leave me alone.” A cold appeal to greed. Whether on the street or in the boardroom, it usually worked. Beneath the hood of his overcoat, dark eyes gleamed. He smiled, an ugly thing with several gold teeth gleaming. His breath was a hot reek of onions.

“We warned you, Daenerys Targaryen. We warned you what would happen.” Fear sank cold talons into her lungs, her intestines. Talons. Like a Harpy. The gun barrel prodded her ribs with a bloom of pain. Daenerys moved on wooden legs toward the alley.

 

~

 

Shit shit shit _shit_! That fucker was dragging her toward an alley! Jon burst into a sprint, still more than a block away. Following her had been a (stalkerish) impulse but he couldn’t help it. Drop dead gorgeous with a steel spine. That quality in Dany, apparently, was a huge turn-on for him. Her soaked black trousers clung to the ripe curve of her ass. A damn fine view. Add to that, he worried for her. Alone, in the dark, in the cold. _Just until she gets to the train stop_ , he told himself. Just until she was safe under those blinding florescent lights, surrounded by exhausted throngs tapping on their phones.

Now some piece of shit was dragging her into the alley to mug her. Not on his watch _. Maybe a block left._

Jon fumbled with his phone, rain pattering on the lock screen. He shoved past some poor bastard crossing the street, ducking between two more waiting at the streetlight. A blaze of headlights. A taxi screeched to a halt amid a hail of Flea Bottom-flavored abuse. Jon careened over the taxi’s hood, crashing to his knees in a puddle. _Fuck_! His phone’s sullen glow rebuked him from the bottom of the puddle. Through his jeans, his knees were on fire.

“The fuck you think you’re doing? You an action star, eh?” the cabbie shouted through a cracked window. Jon staggered to his feet.

“Hey, call the goldcoats! There’s a lady being mugged!”

“Big deal, man. Lots of ladies get mugged. Meter’s running!” he said. Jon slammed a fist on the guy’s hood.

“Fuck off, then!” he barked, tearing off up the street.

Dany, Dany! Which street was it?

Jon skidded to a stop, glimpsing a flash of white. _Dany_! Shit, the fucker was at least a foot taller, built like a brick. Jon zeroed in on the revolver aimed at Dany, lit by a garish pink reflection of neon. Pinned against the wall with that big guy leering down at her. Blond hair plastered to her head, she stared the fucker down without so much as a quivering lip. Blood was dark dribble from the corner of her mouth, diluted by rain. Red spilled over him. He would grind that piece of shit through a fucking blender!

Jon charged, rugby-tackling him to the ground. It was like hitting a brick wall, but the bastard went down. The gun skittered across the concrete. Jon’s glasses bounced off. The two of them scrambled across slimy cobbles. Heavy ham-fisted punches rained down on his back. Jon thrashed, like in a scrum, and kept his grip around the man’s thick waist. An arm snaked out to encircle Jon’s throat. Jon wrenched a finger back until he heard a snap. The mangled hand fisted in his sodden shirt which clung to him like a second skin.

Pain burst red as a blow landed on his temple. His ear rang, the ground lurched in a nauseating whirl. _Get up! Get up, idiot!_ Dany’s scream jolted him to his feet. The bastard was struggling for the gun clenched in Dany’s hand. Thick fingers clenched in her ponytail, yanking her head back. Jon staggered to his knees, the world tilting beneath him. A shrieking male roar rang in his ears.

“ _Bitch_!”

Dany crumpled, arms wrapped around her waist, gasping for air.  

With a roar, Jon lunged. He slammed punches into the man’s side. A couple right in the kidney and he’d drop like a stone, Jon knew from experience. The fucker exhaled a wheezy breath, struggling and fishtailing in Jon’s grip. Warm wetness dripped from one of his hands. Dany had bitten him. Half-smothered by the oily reek of the overcoat and blinded by rain, Jon hung grimly on.

Jon broke the clinch, staggered back in a ready position. Jon threw a jab, catching him on the chin. The guy feinted, threw a haymaker Jon blocked with his forearm. The follow through landed a hard blow to his side. Wind wheezed out of his lungs, white flashing at the edges of his vision. Jon fell to one knee, clutching the sharp burn of pain in his side. A gold-toothed smile leered down at him.

“You’ll pay for breaking my finger,” he snarled.

Jon mustered up flagging energy, flashing forward. He led with a cross to the jaw, then finished with a vicious knee to the groin. He crumpled, snarling something in a language Jon couldn’t recognize.

Jon scrabbled back, fists raised, poised to kick the living shit out of the fucker—Dany whacked the butt of the gun across the guy’s face. Gouts of blood poured from his broken nose. The man clutched his face with a phlegmy wheeze.

“You fucking cunt!” he said, swiping a hand out to snag her wrist. It was almost funny, the nasally tone. Dany slammed the butt of the gun down on his head again, catching him in the temple. A dull _thunk_ and he fell like a stone. Silence rang, save for gurgle of rain from the mouth of the gutter and Jon’s harsh breathing.

“Is he dead?” Dany asked, teeth chattering and gripping the pistol with white-knuckled hands. Squinting down at his bulky chest, there was a definite rise and fall.

“No, just knocked out.” Probably a serious concussion, if not coma, judging by the blood bubbling from his nose, but Jon kept that to himself. She was shaken up. He took a step toward her and flexed his throbbing hands, unsure if she would want comfort. 

 “Are you ok? You’re bleeding.” Jon said, gesturing to her cut lip.

“Fine. What are you doing here?”

Washed in faint pink, her eyes glittered beneath her forked brow. Busted. Jon spat a glob of bloody spit on the ground. A blow had cut the inside of his lip. Exhaustion was a heavy grey wave, his knees quivering beneath him. The hot energy drained away. Soaked to the skin, the cold was beginning to penetrate. Gooseflesh stippled his exposed arms. _She must be freezing._

“I wanted to make sure you got to the station ok,” he said in a small voice.

“You followed me?” Her voice sounded accusing.

“Good thing I did,” Jon said, with a gesture to the guy on the ground.

“I can take care of myself.”

“I can see that,” Jon said, unable to wipe the slight smile from his face. Pistol-whipping a guy twice her size, what a woman. Dany held the gun with ginger fingers, like the tail of a dead rat. Gods, she was cute. There was a tight squeeze in his chest. He flexed his hands again to check the impulse to hug her.

“I need to call the goldcoats. Give them our statement.”

“Good thinking,” Jon said, plucking the gun from her hand and setting it on the cobbles between them. Dany wobbled around, finding her purse tossed behind a trashcan. Jon frowned.

“Wait, you had your purse the whole time? What kind of mugger was he?” Dany’s eyes looked huge and haunted.

“He wasn’t a mugger. He was trying to . . . kill me.” Jon froze.

“ _What_?”

She broke his gaze, riffling around in her purse. Jon glared at the inert would-be assassin, more than slightly tempted to stomp on his fucking head. Dany muttered a curse.

“My phone’s gone. Do you have yours?”

“Mine took a bit of a dunk chasing after you. Now who’s the guy?” Jon demanded. Dany met his gaze, radiating steely self-possession.

“He works for the Harpy Triumvirate. They’ve sent me death threats every day for three years.” The pieces fell into place with an inevitable _click_ in his head.

“You’re Daenerys Targaryen. CEO of Rising Dragon and founder of Breaking Chains, the anti-trafficking coalition.” It was a statement, not a question. Her gaze was clear and direct, her spine ramrod straight.

“Yes.”

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A rainy night on Visenya's Hill

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic kinda ran away with me. To my Virtue a Veil readers, I promise I'm working on it, but this fic's Muse is speaking to me a bit louder. Enjoy!

 

 

Jon folded his arms over his chest, the rain a determined patter on his head. Wind howled through the alley, and Dany shivered. Questions pinged around in his mind like a pinball. Why was a woman worth billions slumming at a place like The Oasis? She could hire a private masseur to treat her in the office, in her skyrise, wherever. The horndog side of his brain eagerly latched onto that idea, imaging servicing her in exotic locales. Jon shook it off irritably.

More importantly, where was her hired car with bulletproof glass, her six thick-necked security guards forming an impenetrable barrier around her?

“Ok,” Jon drawled out the syllable. He bent, picked up the revolver and tucked it in the back waistband of his jeans.

“New plan. Let’s go,” he said, grabbing her hand. Daenerys dug in her heels, though her fingers braided with his. So warm.

“What are you talking about? We have to call the authorities, give our statement!” Her voice was imperious. Used to getting her way. Lucky for Jon, he had thick skin and stubbornness to match. Jon towed her to the mouth of the alley and down the street toward the train station. At this time of night, the buildings loomed silent and ominous. Pedestrians were few and far between.

“That was the plan before you said there was a horde of bad guys out to murder you! You can give your statement once we get you to your security detail.” His shoulders hunched at the thought of watching eyes. Daenerys’ heels clicked determinedly on the pavement, keeping pace. She didn’t relinquish her grip on his hand.

They pulled up, waiting for a crosswalk light to change. Bedraggled with her makeup running in a soupy grey mess, she was still gorgeous. Regal. Unbending.

“But the gun!” she hissed in an undertone, “It looks bad you carrying it around! Do you even know how to use that thing?” Jon couldn’t help the grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. That uppity tone almost made him stand straighter. The gun was cold hard weight at the small of his back, reassuring.

“I’d rather save it in case we run into more bad guys. And yes, I know how to use it. My dad taught us all how to shoot when we were young. But I think I’ll leave the pistol-whipping to you,” he said. Daenerys snorted, her eye-crinkling smile lighting her face for an instant.

The brief levity bled away as they hurried toward the train station. Jon squinted at the eye-watering florescent brightness through intermittent gusts of rain. Damn, his glasses were back in the alley. He couldn’t make out the digits on the clock.

“This doesn’t look good,” she repeated, “I got my start working with the DA, but I haven’t done criminal work in years. I couldn’t ethically represent you due to a conflict in interest, and my testimony is already suspect since--”

“We’re not in a courtroom, babe. My plan is simple. Number One: Get Daenerys home safe, and Number Two: Worry about my legal rights as a citizen of Westeros,” Jon said.

“You’ve already done enough for me, Jon. I can’t--”

Jon tugged her beneath the flapping awning of the train station, at last out of the rain. In the flickering white light, her colors dazzled him. Silver-blond hair hanging in thick wet ropes dripping rainwater, eyes the color of amethysts all but glowing from sooty smudges of makeup, full pink lips quivering with cold. The bleeding had stopped. Her sleek business-chic clothing clung to her. The Mother wept. Of course she would have the most perfect breasts in all creation. He could trace the lace pattern of her bra through her shirt, her nipples tight in the cold. _Eyes up, lad._ The voice in his head sounded like his father.

The hunger was there, but something else too. Drenched and shivering, she looked a half-drowned kitten. He wanted to tuck her under his shirt, keep her warm and safe . . . his free hand moved of his own will, cradling her cheek. Jon tried not to read into how she nestled into his hand, the shudder of her breath a warm, delicate caress.

“None of that, Dany. If I leave now, I’ll feel like an asshole. Let me walk you home.” Daenerys nodded with a wobbly smile. The movement was like she was nuzzling his hand. Mm, warm, fine-grained skin and the finest dusting of peach fuzz.

“Your poor hands!” she said, peering at his abraded knuckles in the light. Her thumb brushed his knuckles, a gentle cherishing touch that made his throat close. Fuck, he was in trouble. Jon coughed.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said, snatching one hand back. The memory of the touch throbbed there, like a burn. Daenerys’ direct violet gaze made him squirm.

“Thank you. For saving my life,” she said.

There was no way to answer that without sounding like an idiot, so he squeezed her hand.

“Let’s go. We have a train to catch.”

The turnstile was deserted, the security guard behind the glass dozing. Acres of tall concrete pillars made Jon itch. Who knew how many were out there? Watching. Waiting to seize her. Under the drape of his soaked polo, Jon gripped the butt of the pistol. He prowled around the turnstile, eyes peeled. The ticker said the next train north was due in the next ten minutes. Daenerys politely pushed the help button. Behind the reinforced glass sat your typical security type: overweight, bored, balding guy in his mid-fifties. And the guy was _snoring_.

“Excuse me? _Excuse_ me?” she said, that steel laced in her tone. Jon could easily picture her marching in a courtroom and verbally filleting a scumbag into neat chunks. Impatient, Jon pounded on the window.

“Hey, you! We need some help!” he barked. The guard snuffled awake, bloodshot brown eyes blinking at them.

“W—What seems to be the problem?” he asked, discreetly wiping drool from the corner of his mouth.

“Ser, could we use your phone? I need to make a call to the Watch,” Daenerys asked. So polite, reasonable. Like she hadn’t been threatened and punched and manhandled ten minutes ago. The guard jiggled on his rolling chair.

“Is everything all right, sugar?” _Sugar_? Jon’s temper stewed like stormclouds. She asked for a phone to call in the cavalry and this cretin paused to _leer_? Fucking creep.

“Everything’s great. Peachy. Little thing though,” Jon said, holding his fingers at a minuscule margin, “she was held at gunpoint and nearly killed a couple blocks up, so we’d like to make a call to the authorities and get the fuck out of here, you dumb piece of--”

Daenerys slid her hand into his, as easy as breathing. Jon broke off, startled. 

“What my boyfriend is trying to say is that we’ve had a very trying night,” Daenerys said with a quelling look in his direction, “could we please use your phone? We’d like to catch the next train home.”

“Of course, sugar. Here you go,” he said with a parting glare in Jon’s direction. Thick fingers shoved the cordless phone through the safety slot. Daenerys took it and dialed.

“This is Daenerys Targaryen, I’d like to report a crime and leave a statement with an officer, please.”

Their train platform was only up two flights of stairs, but as the minutes ticked by, Jon paced. Vending machine juice and cashews gave the two of them much-needed fuel, though. If they missed it, another train wouldn’t come for another half hour, and a cab north to Aegon’s Hill would cost more than he had in his wallet. Sitting cross-legged at the base of a pillar, Daenerys frowned, all her concentration on the phone and the asshole at the other end. Her hair was drying into frizzy waves which she twitched out of her face impatiently.

“For the third time, ser—sorry, _Officer_ —the man only said: ‘We warned you what would happen.’ . . . no, no he didn’t say his name. It’s not like he made introductions before putting a gun to my-- . . . no, I didn’t have my security. These men have been sending me threats for almost three years . . . of course I take the threats seriously! Are you implying . . . His name is Jon--” Daenerys covered the mouthpiece. Through the irritation, a sheepish humor darted across her face.

“What is your surname?” she hissed.

Jon chuckled. Yeah, it was weird. Sizzling, soul-deep sexual attraction, light flirtation, a sprinkling of fighting for your life and attempted murder, topped with fake boyfriend shtick, they skipped over more banal details like last names and where you grew up. 

“Snow. Jon Snow.”

“Jon Snow. Yes. Yes, I am a lawyer, I realize he’ll need to come in for a statement. Yes, please send a patrolman to my apartment, my fiancé is . . . Thank you, Officer Slynt. I will contact you. Thank you.” Daenerys hung up the phone with a harsh sigh. Jon helped her to her feet. Overhead, the train roared into the station with a whine of creaking brakes. Time to go.

“Everything ok?” Jon asked.

“A mess. I hope the report doesn’t break to the media in the morning. Vis will lose his mind. I wish I had time to call him or Daario . . .” Jon dropped her hand. He shouldn’t get his feelings hurt. Nothing had changed. Still, after everything, it _stung_.

“You’ll be home soon enough and can explain in person.”

They climbed the stairs, shuffled through the pay dock and onto the train in silence. Inside, the train was close and warm, reeking of stale body odor and cigarettes. Two benches were occupied. One middle-aged woman clutched rain-spattered groceries, another tattooed youth sprawled blaring music. Jon sat down toward the rear of the car, the hard plastic seat grinding the gun into the small of his back. He shifted, uncomfortable. Daenerys settled beside him, her purse in her lap. The train doors slid shut with a reassuring _thump_. A screech and lurch, and at last, they were moving.

Jon leaned his head back against the window, lulling by the rocking of the train. The city was a rain-soft blur through the window. A warm weight against his side woke him from a shallow doze. Daenerys sagged against his shoulder, asleep. Jon crept his arm around her, tucking her against his side. He wasn’t her fiancé, or her boyfriend, or her anything else. But for now, he could keep her safe while she slept. There wasn’t a damn thing anyone could do to stop him. Jon glared hot-eyed into the dark, his grip jealously tight. 

 

~

 

Daenerys jerked awake to the sound of screeching brakes. Wha--? A sturdy warmth under her cheek, the fine weave of cloth, a faint woodsy scent. _Jon_.

“It’s ok. We’re here,” Jon whispered, his voice humming against her cheek. She groped for wakefulness, for clarity. The ticker above the El door read: _King Street/Aegon’s Hill_. Daenerys sat up. Gods, passed out against him. Fragile. Clingy. The embarrassments would never cease. The thought should have made her furious. On a normal day, it would have. But she’d grown reliant on Jon’s decisiveness, strength, and comfort.

“Sorry I fell asleep,” she said, trying to finger-comb her half-dried hair into a semblance of order.

“You’re exhausted. Don’t worry about it,” he said.

Jon shrugged, standing up with clean grace. His curls hung in wild hanks, the polo still clinging to the sharp lines of his torso. Shadows hung under his eyes too, speaking of the same exhaustion and hunger she felt. After the massage, a lifetime ago, she fantasized about inveigling him into sex. Now instead of just a hot crush, he was knight, her hero, sweeping in and saving her from the slobbering monster. She was in deep already.  

Rubbing her burning eyes, Daenerys disembarked after Jon. She badly wanted to hold his hand. Daario wasn’t the cutesy, snuggly type. He liked sex, and physical contact beyond that was sitting together on the couch, sharing a blanket. Daenerys hadn’t realized how much she liked holding hands. The weave of fingers, the secret beat of his heart against her palm.

The rain had mercifully downgraded from a deluge to a steady rain, though the wind blowing in from the sea was cold.

“My building’s this way, about five blocks,” Daenerys said, motioning north up Aegon’s Hill. At the crown of Aegon’s Hill was the Targaryen Palace, and government buildings. Ranging south were upscale shops, offices—including her own—and apartment buildings. The skyrise she shared with Daario was among that group, maybe fifteen blocks east from her office.

The strobing white and gold lights of the watchman patrol car was double-parked in the space in front of her building. Jon let out a low whistle. The apartment building at 200 King was a monolith of chrome and white marble. The lobby was Daario’s style, hypermodern and sleek. Daenerys preferred the warmth of wood and natural light.

“Miss Targaryen? Good to see you back. The watchman is already upstairs. Everything all right?” the security guard asked, blinking behind thick glasses.

“It’s been a long night, Beric. We’ll head up,” Daenerys said.

Jon trailed after her into the keyed elevator. She watched his dark gaze slide over the plush carpeting, the wooden paneling, the wrought gold buttons. The fiction of Dany Steele was gone, and she found she missed it. Invariably, when discovering her wealth and notoriety, a strange barrier activated, like a thick wall of glass. People suddenly acted more proper, fawning, or vaguely hostile. Not that she had any room to bemoan her privilege. So many were born and lived with much less. 

“Nice place,” Jon said.

“It’s good to be home. Thank you again, for everything,” she said. Jon’s gaze slid away from hers, hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans.

“Anyone else would do the same.” The air between them was stilted, hard to breathe. Daenerys wished for the moment at the train station when he touched her cheek. The wattage of those warm brown eyes at close proximity . . . mmm. 

The door dinged and slid open. Something was wrong. Her door yawned open, askew on its hinges. Her stomach turned leaden.  

“Oh gods!” she said, trotting toward the door.

“Dany!” Jon’s concerned voice followed her. She lunged toward the door, only to be stopped by a steely arm.

“Miss Targaryen?” the patrolman asked. Warm brown skin and a faint Dornish accent. Officer Santagar, by his gold badge. Beneath the professional mask, she saw a flicker of discomfort. The patrolman’s black and gold uniform stood out against the sterile white hallway.

“But my . . . my--” her brain shorted out.

Her apartment was in shambles. Utterly destroyed. Furniture overturned, cushions gutted, flower vases smashed, glass tea table shattered, her large TV sputtering static in its death throes. Blue roses lay limp and forlorn on polished white tile, tiny casualties. Daenerys pressed her hand over her mouth to swallow a sob. Her heels crunched on broken glass.

“Daario?” her voice warbled.

“I’m sure he’s fine, Miss. There was no one at the scene when I arrived. How the perp got in is still unclear. Have you given anyone access to your elevator?”

“No. You said Daario was ok? He lives here with me. What about my brother?” Jon stood behind her. His silent strength radiating warmth kept her from a shrieking meltdown. 

“Mr. Targaryen has been appraised of the situation. He’s currently on a business trip in Myr. Who is this?” the patrolman asked with a narrow look at Jon. He did look out of place, muscular and bedraggled with a faint bruise blooming at his temple. Stark and vibrant against the neutral gold-toned shades of her apartment. Scowling with his hands in his pockets, she saw the tension in his shoulders.

“This is Jon Snow. He’s my friend. He saved my life,” she said. His gaze met hers, so warm and grateful some of the leaden sickness eased from her stomach.

“She asked about her fiancé,” Jon’s voice was equally leaden and suspicious. Santagar looked acutely uncomfortable.

“We haven’t yet located him. I’m sure he’s fine.”

The platitude tasted like insult. Daenerys’ spine stiffened. She cast a sharp gesture to the ruins of her life.

“You must be joking,” she said, in a sharp, icy tone that turned most junior partners to shivering wrecks. It worked on wet-behind-the-ears-watchmen too. Santagar cleared his throat.

“The lab techs are en route, but there were no signs of str--” Daenerys stalled him with a gesture.

“If you say ‘struggle,’ I will lose it. Give me your badge number, Officer. I can count at least four charges of negligence in the ten minutes you’ve been here. If this is the sum total of what the City Watch’s office can offer, then I might find it pertinent to file a--”

“Hey, hey, take it easy, Miss! We’re doing ever--”

“‘Everything you can,’ really? _Really_? Have you bothered to check Daario’s office?” Santagar’s stiff silence was answer enough. Daenerys marched toward the door, Jon at her heels.

“It seems I must conduct my own investigation. I’ll have a word for your supervisor once I return.”

The walk through the skybridge toward Daario’s office was at least warm. In her huff, she’d forgotten to grab a jacket. Or so much as pack a bag. Her home was now a crime scene, so she doubted she would be allowed to, anyway.

“I can see why you have a near-impeccable record. If I was a lawyer, I wouldn’t want to go toe to toe with you,” Jon said with a cajoling grin. Daenerys found a faint smile.

“Speaking of toe to toe, how does a masseur know how to fight off a guy twice his size?” she asked with a raised brow. Daenerys chose not to ask why he was still here. Barry Selmy of her security detail would be meeting her at Daario’s office to escort her.

“Twice? Please. He was three times the size, easy.”

This time Daenerys snorted. How could he put her ease like this? Her life was in shambles, but Jon Snow was there, steady as a rock her shipwrecked soul could cling to. How refreshing, a man secure in himself who could poke fun at his own flaws. His height suited her just fine, not that she could weigh in her opinion. _I have no claim to him._ She had to repeat that.

“My brother and sister and I had a martial arts phase, like most kids. Anyway, we liked it. Kept at it. Ro—my brother’s into the Braavosi stuff. Fencing and boxing. My kid sister Arya is a mixed martial artist. A little of everything. If she had her way, she’d be a professional. Could kick my ass seven ways to the sept.” Daenerys hid a smile. Love for his siblings shone in the way he talked about them. She and Vis couldn’t boast the same. The only thing beyond blood they shared was a fierce, naked ambition.

As distractions went, talking to Jon was a brilliant one. They crossed the bridge to the deserted lobby of Stormcrow Enterprises and Daenerys keyed in the code for Daario’s private elevator.

“What about you?” she asked.  

“I used to play rugby. I keep up with dirty boxing, a little Astapori stuff.” “What’s dirty boxing?”

“Boxing that doesn’t quibble over rules. Street fighting. Astapori stuff is the same, throws, locks, knife-fighting. I can fight clean, of course, but if a guy jumps you, you don’t want to be hung up on fighting fair.”

“I thank you for that,” Daenerys said. Jon nudged her shoulder with his. An oblique comforting gesture that Daenerys ate up like ice cream. His steady gaze made her flush.

“Quit thanking me. I did it because I hated the thought of that fucker laying a finger on you. I’d do it again. Get used to it.”

“Ok. Tha—I mean, I appreciate it.” A warm moment stretched between them, and Daenerys was acutely aware of his closeness. The wild, sex-crazed Dany in her head urged her to push him against the elevator wall and _show_ him her thanks. Attack him with kisses and then drop down on her knees and--  

The elevator doors slid open and Daenerys found the sturdy form of Mr. Selmy, head of her security detail. The fantasy evaporated into frustrated steam. Selmy, a Serviceman for the prime minister during the tumultuous years of her father’s government tenure, hadn’t relaxed in his twilight years. Rigid with close-cropped white hair, he was the picture of warm reliability. Paternal and strong.

“Barry, it’s good to see you,” Daenerys said, his handshake clasping her hand between both his.

“I’m so glad you’re safe, Miss,” he said warmly. His voice always reminded her of tea with cream. Warm and rich, soothing. Barry’s sharp blue eyes flickered to Jon.

“It’s thanks to Jon. He saved me,” Daenerys said. Barry’s watchful tension eased.

“In that case, thank you Mr. . . .” he said, offering a handshake.

“Snow. Jon Snow.”

“Snow? I’m sure I know that name.”

A soft sound reached her ears from the direction of Daario’s office. A sick sense of dread lay like a lead weight in her stomach.

“Rakharo and Kove are doing a sweep of the lower floors. I sent Jory to--”

“Daario’s here, isn’t he?”

“Uh, yes, Miss, but--”

Daenerys took off, letting Barry’s platitudes fall on deaf ears. The office lighting was dim, cubicles in sterile order. The blinds on Daario’s office walls were shut, golden light seeping through. She wrenched open the door for find her fiancé locked in an intimate embrace. Through her spill of honey-blond hair, she recognized Jeyne.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daario faces the music and Dany makes a choice

Chapter 5

 

His stepmother Catelyn Stark was a devoted follower of the Seven. The septas had read Jon and his siblings _The Seven Pointed Star_ as children, and he’d learned all about the seven heavens and the seven hells. This was surely one of the latter, trapped in a loop of humiliation and embarrassment for eternity.

It had been fifteen minutes standing wooden beside Dany’s security guard guy, listening as a relationship was ground to powder. Dany’s relationship. Jon listened to every excruciating second as Dany verbally disemboweled the guy. The girl had scurried out, half-dressed and in tears. There was no amount of masculine camaraderie that could get Jon to sympathize with the bastard. He had _Dany_ , walking spitfire and epitome of female perfection, promised to him. And he gets his jollies with the secretary? It was a cliché. An embarrassing one. The security guy, Selmy, he tapped on his cell. A blessed distraction, a veneer of privacy. Jon had no such shield.

He couldn’t put a finger on why he hung around, other than he wanted to see how it resolved. He’d stuck it out this far. The horndog in his head pointed out she might need a little cuddling and comforting once she dropped The Asshole Fiancé like a bad habit. His thinking brain shot down the idea, but that hopeful, starving hound waited, ready to trot around after her, tail wagging, ready to pant and beg for a scratch behind the ears. 

“To think I actually spent energy _worrying_ about you. When you were here getting your wick dipped by a--”

“Where have you been, huh? All night I’ve tried calling, texting. I thought about calling the Watch!”

“Oh thanks for the consideration. So glad I crossed your mind in between blow jobs, you son of a bitch! I was almost killed tonight!”

“Killed? Don’t be dramatic, Dany!”

“ _Dramatic_? I’m being _dramatic_ when a guy puts a _gun_ to my head?”

“I’m sure it wasn’t--”

“I thought all the gossip was just that. Cheating with an assistant? How could you do this to me? You know what, forget it. Obviously, the wedding is off. Go fuck yourself. Humph, I guess you already are.”

With that parting salvo, Dany emerged from the office. Ramrod straight, though there was the slightest quiver of rage in her hands as she combed her flyaway strands of her dried cloud of hair behind her ear. No ring. She’d flung it at the idiot’s eye in minute seven. The Asshole had the presence of mind to not chase after her.

Daenerys glided past them. Jon shared a glance with the security guy before trailing along in her wake.

“Miss--”

“Save it, Barry. I can’t stomach another lie.”  

Daenerys stopped short in the hall. Her violet gaze raked over Jon. In that gaze, he felt like an ant under a magnifying glass. Exposed. Naked. Damn, even that turned him on. What was wrong with him? _A sucker for this one, lad._

“Would you like to get dinner?”

“Uh . . . yeah. Sounds good.” In answer, she gave a curt nod, like a battle commander accepting their due.

The elevator chimed and the three of them piled in.

“Miss, we have to discuss the strategy moving forward,” Selmy said, to fill the thick silence.

“Agreed. Send a message to Mr. Lannister. He is acting manager until I return. Where is safe lodging? My apartment is now a crime scene,” Daenerys said frostily.

“The perpetrators knew your location and gained access your apartment. That means they have a geotag on your cell, and a bug in your electronics,” Selmy said. All the fierce energy bled away, leaving her looking drained and miserable. Jon checked the impulse to hug her just in time. He stumbled like he’d lost his balance. Yikes. He was in deep. But the deep water didn’t scare him. Nope, not even a little.

“So Vis’s apartment and the safe houses aren’t options either.”

“No, Miss,” Selmy said gently.

“You can stay with me,” Jon blurted.

Two pairs of eyes swiveled to him. One blue, one violet, both wearing identical expressions of disbelief.

“You said you need someplace safe nobody knows about. I’m the perfect nobody.” _Nobody, guard, roommate, bedslave, whatever you want._ Selmy had his number, Jon could tell by his narrow look. Who knew he got off on being a hero—particularly Dany’s hero? Daenerys laid a hand on his arm.

“Jon, I couldn’t ask you to--” Jon mustered a weak lopsided grin.

“It’s ok. I want to help. Stay with me as long as you need.” To his horror, her eyes filled with tears.

“Thank you,” she said soggily.

She didn’t hug him so much as collapse against him. Jon’s arms closed around her with a mental _aah_. Such fucking _relief_. Her strong, slender body, her face tucked under his chin, quivering lips pressed against his neck. Like a kiss. Swamped by the smell of her hair, guzzling up all that delicious contact . . . uh oh.

The elevator lurched to a stop and Daenerys peeled back. Jon’s happy bubble popped with an audible sound as soon as Dany left touching distance. Selmy’s scathing glance at his lower half almost made Jon yelp. The accusation in the older man’s face said he was an opportunistic asshole. And he was. Luring Dany to his apartment with even a faint desire to seduce her, after attempted murder and _seconds_ after she broke up with her fiancé . . . yep, there was no other way to describe it.

Jon exhaled a heavy breath, reining in his libido which lunged on its chain like the slavering dog it was. He would be the perfect gentleman. He could do it.   

The three of them filed off the elevator. Two other guys in suits waited in the darkened lobby, both with long black braids. The streetlight filtered through the windows, creating a bluish, milky glow on the marble tiles.

“Miss, I’m sure we can come up with a better alternative. Mr. Snow has done quite enough.”

Daenerys rounded on Selmy, drilling an accusing finger into his chest.

“As have you, Mr. Selmy. How long did you know about it?” “Miss?” Selmy rubbed his chest, blinking in confusion.

“Daario. He has been in the same security circulation as I. You heard him say he’s been fucking Jeyne for three fucking _weeks_. One of you, my sharp security team, must have seen _something_.” Their sheepish expressions said it all. Daenerys made a derisive sound.

“Typical.” Her flashing violet eyes raked over the assembled men.

“If you value your employment, I want you three to see to security of The Oasis’s proprietor, Shae. I was there for over an hour earlier tonight. Missy too. If they geotagged by location, they could be in danger.”

“Yes, Miss,” Selmy mumbled, looking like a kid scolded by his teacher.

A fourth security guy crossed the lobby, laden with parcels.

“I got burgers from Hot Pie’s, some cash, a burner phone, a couple changes of clothes the goldcoats let me take, my wife walked me through the toiletry bit, but I think I got everything,” he said, with a thick northern accent.

Daenerys moved to take the parcels, Jon smoothly intercepted. Beneath the leaden disbelief was a giddy rush. Was this really happening? Dany in his apartment. Dany in her pajamas. Dany after showers. Dany sipping tea. Hell yes, sign him up.  

“Thank you, Jory. I’ll call you in the morning. Dismissed,” she said, with a scathing glare at her team. Laden with packages, Jon offered his elbow.

“Shall we?” he asked.

“Snow,” Selmy’s iron voice brought him up short. Daenerys narrowed a look at him.

“I’ll hail a cab,” she said, clicking away.

Jon squared off against the older man, meeting the challenge in his stare.

“The authorities would like to look at the weapon involved in the incident earlier tonight. May I see it?” Selmy said.

Frankly, Jon had forgotten about it, nestled against the base of his spine. Jon set down the bags and pulled it out. He dropped it into the proffered evidence bag.

“For what it’s worth, I would have done the same thing had I been there,” one of the other security guy said, the taller one with the long braid.

“Thanks,” Jon said.

“Do you have your own gun?” Selmy asked. Jon hid a wince, and shook his head.

“I’m a good fighter, and I have a big dog. That’s all I’ve needed so far.”

“I’ll let you borrow my backup weapon. We will come tomorrow evening to collect Miss Targaryen,” Selmy said, offering Jon a sleek semi-automatic pistol with two extra magazines. Jon accepted the weapon, releasing the magazine to check the number of rounds. Satisfied, he tamped it back in and checked the chamber to show them he knew what he was doing. Having passed a temporary muster, Selmy nodded.

“Tomorrow then, Snow.”    

 

~

 

It was close to one in the morning by the time the cab dropped them off at Jon’s apartment complex. Together they’d polished off the burgers, greasy chips, and soft drinks Jory bought. Hot Pie’s were the best in town. Daenerys managed one burger, but Jon tore through three.

“You don’t mind dogs, do you? I have a big furry mutt, Ghost. He’s a sweet dog, but protective. That’s good, right?” Jon sounded as nervous as she felt, and that put her at ease.

“I love dogs. My apartment complex wouldn’t allow pets, otherwise I’d adopt one,” Daenerys said, dabbing her mouth with a paper napkin.

“Here you are, m’lady, ser,” the cabbie said with a round Landinger accent.

Daenerys shelled off several bills and followed Jon out into the pissing rain.

“It’s nicer than it looks,” Jon said, gathering her bags on one arm as he buzzed the code to open his door. Daenerys thought it was serviceable building of weathered brick. Dated, but well-kept.

“I like it.”

Her heart rate kicked up a notch as the elevator doors closed. She was staying at Jon’s apartment. She would see him shirtless, tousled, sipping tea or brushing his teeth. Sleep in sheets that smelled like him.

The fantasy of pinning him to wall and having her wicked way with him—while to no end appealing—felt impossible. Daario had been cheating on her for weeks. It wasn’t just tabloid drivel; it was gut-wrenchingly real. Their relationship was over. Knowing Daario, she wouldn’t put it past him to scuttle to the press and release a statement for a wad of crowns. It was a kick in the teeth after a long and spectacularly bad day. She and Daario hadn’t been intimate in a while, either. The only thing even remotely close to sexual energy had been massages at The Oasis with Jon. Mm, she savored the memory of his hands on her. The hug at Stormcrow had blown on those embers. Best to snatch at the lovely magic heat before it fizzled, as her sexuality inevitably did.

Daenerys drew a steadying breath in through her nose, and stabbed the STOP button on the elevator. A shrill bell pealed for an ear-splitting second as the brakes settled.

“Dany? What are you--” Jon asked.

Daenerys sidled close, edging him against the wall.

“I haven’t thanked you properly for what you did tonight,” she whispered, hoarse and soft. Daenerys flicked her gaze to his lips, full and smooth. Her mouth watered. She probably looked like a wreck, bloodshot eyes and ruined makeup and tangled hair. By force of will, Daenerys wrestled that nagging voice into a locked box in her mind.

Bracing her hands flat on his heaving chest, she leaned closer. Jon dropped the parcels, his dark eyes wide.

“Dany,” he whispered.

The first touch of her lips to his was shy, tentative. Electricity seemed to arc between them, a tingling jolt. She felt the sharp intake of breath, felt the sudden hot grip of his hands on her hips. Mm, there it was, that delicious melting feeling. A pulse deep at her core. She kissed him again, a deeper press. His hum vibrated against her lips. Jon angled his chin, deepening the kiss with unhurried pecks, easing in to taste her. Heat and hunger, nervousness and passion.

It spun and twisted. Oh. Oh, _yes_. Mm, she loved the stroke of his tongue, the syrupy taste of soda in his mouth, the prickle of his beard. One hand curled in the curly hair at his nape, the other burrowed beneath his shirt to stroke the hot, hard planes of chest and belly. His hand cupped her hip, the other tenderly cradling the weight of her breast through the lace of her bra. Slow, careful touches that left her nipples hard and her core slick and aching. Daenerys moaned, arching for more. He pinched her nipple, ever so gently, and the sensation sent pleasure arrowing south.

“Jon,” she whispered. In his name, she heard raw, shaky _need._ No time to embarrassed about it.     

Then suddenly, he pushed back, holding her at arm’s length. Daenerys wanted to cry or howl. Panting, she gulped down air, trying to master herself. Gods, he looked _edible_. Mouth red and ripe, hair in a curly snarl, a prominent erection strained against the cruel prison of his jeans.

“Be _sure_ ,” he said emphatically. Daenerys frowned, the words distant static compared to hot, towering hunger.

When she understood, she nearly did cry. Be sure she wanted him. Be sure it was real for her. Daenerys touched her forehead to his and in the humid, panting space between them, she whispered: “I’m sure.”

The world spun and she had her back against the wall, pinned by Jon’s warm, hard body.

“Ok?” Jon asked, nuzzling her cheek with his nose. The tenderness of it broke her heart. Daenerys nodded, leaning close to kiss him again.

The kiss took on a demented life of its own. A delicious, feverish blur. She didn’t recognize herself. Twined around him, kissing madly. Frantic heat. Flooded and needy, clawing for more. Jon lifted her against the wall, grinding his trapped cock against her core. _Gods_. Even that blunt pressure through their clothes was good. _So good._

“Jon. _Jon_ . . .” she whimpered, clinging to him. Fumbling with her shirt, he nuzzled the lacy cups of her bra, teasing one tender nipple with his tongue. Helpless mewling whimpers leaving her with each sharp jut of his hips. The tension gathered, building to the sweet-sharp tipping point . . . Daenerys clenched her eyes shut as the world blasted into a throbbing red, shot through with gold.

 _Jon_.

 

~

 

Jon set her on her feet, pressing his face to her throat. Her pulse leapt against his lips, he lapped up the salt of her sweat, blazing a path to her sweet mouth. Clouded violet eyes looked at him like . . . _fuck_. She looked at him like he was her own personal god. Jon kissed her, ravenous. Puffy, kiss-bruised lips were soft and open, gentle hands petting his hair. Fucking hell, if this was how intense it was when they were both fully clothed, it would kill him if he was ever inside her. Gods, lodged deep in her sweet pussy, every inch of him kissed and loved, drinking in her face, her eyes as she fell apart . . . Jon broke away, panting.

“Jon?” Her voice was sex incarnate, husky and sweet. An adorable frown marred the pleasure-muddled look.

“You didn’t . . .” she trailed off. Jon shook his head.

“No,” he rasped, vaguely impressed he sounded human. His cock was achingly hard and throbbed along with his heartbeat. Daenerys Targaryen would be the death of him. Jon tilted his chin to give her a parting kiss, but it surged into greedy, clinging life. After a while, Jon peeled back with some effort, gulping in air. Mm, the floral scent of her hair, mixed with sweat and the musky fragrance of her pleasure . . . Jon uttered a frustrated sound.

“Let’s get inside,” he said.

On rubbery legs, he led the rest of the journey from the elevator to his apartment, laden with her bags. Ghost barked and wagged around both of them as he shouldered open the door.

“Shh, boy! Down! You got to be quiet!” Jon hissed. He kicked the door shut behind him, setting Dany’s bags down on the tea table. Jon grunted as Ghost’s front paws struck him in the gut. Ghost slobbered on his face, then immediately dismissed him to sniff and nuzzle at Daenerys. She giggled, ginger hands patting his thick ruff. Jon’s heart gave a lurch at the sight of her in his sparse living room. Daenerys Targaryen. The mind boggled.

The mood was definitely broken. Jon’s mouth twisted. That was for the best. He didn’t want to fuck this up. He wanted Dany to feel safe, to feel comfortable. The best way to ruin that was with sex. Incendiary and mind-altering as their petting had been, boundaries had to be locked down, etched in steel. No more slip ups. He had to be the perfect host. His body howled in denial. The silence between them felt excruciatingly awkward.   

A note fluttered in his key bowl beside the door. Grateful for the distraction, he picked it up. In Sam’s neat hand, he read: ‘ _Little Sam took Ghost on a walk up the stairs. He did his business on Mr. Glover’s welcome rug. We left a note. Call us back!!’_   Beneath it in Little Sam’s heavy-handed scrawl, it read: _‘I gave Ghost a treat. Mr. Glover is mean.’_ Jon chuckled.

“My neighbor, telling me he took Ghost for a walk,” Jon explained.

The mutt in question was on his back, squirming in delight as Dany rubbed his belly. _You and me both, buddy._ Daenerys giggled and cooed at Ghost before she straightened, dusting white dog fluff off her hands. She slung her bag over her arm.

“Um, I think I’ll take a shower, if that’s ok.” Jon bobbed his head in a frantic nod.

“Sure, help yourself. The only full bath is in the master, around the corner.” Jon trailed after her, as if connected by a string. His large bed was unmade, dirty clothes littering the floor. Face aflame, he snatched a pair of plaid boxer-briefs from the square bedpost.

“Sorry. I wasn’t . . . ah, expecting company.” The bathroom was little better, cluttered and messy. Daenerys’ smile loosened the knot in his gut.

“Don’t worry. It’s fine.”

Dany shut the door with a quiet click. When the hiss of the shower bled through the door, Jon burst into a frenzy of activity. He stripped the bed and wadded the sheets and dirty clothes into the hamper. Digging in his cramped linen cupboard, he found fresh sheets, silvery grey worn to downy softness. His summer blanket, a cheap black microfiber thing, looked too thin. She might get cold. He hauled out his down comforter too. The hefty flop of it releasing a faint musty odor. He remade the bed and tucked the curtains tight over the windows. He shucked off his damp clothes and peeled off soaked socks with a moue of distaste. The faint clean scent and dry chafe of a pair of drawstring sweatpants and white undershirt felt great.    

Jon snagged his favorite pillow and tossed it and an extra blanket on his squat suede couch. That would be his post. Guarding the door. Seized by inspiration, he checked the deadbolt, and wedged a dining room chair under the knob, just in case. The door was a solid, concrete-filled fire door. Hanging them was a bitch of a job. A quick sweep of the apartment found all the windows locked. They were high up and small, typical of the age of the building. The fire escape was at the end of the hall. A good little fortress against any of the fuckers who wanted to mess with Dany. Ghost trotted after him, jumping up on the couch and resting his head on a throw pillow.

“Thanks a lot, buddy,” Jon said, scratching one tufted ear, “she’s pretty great, huh? We got to keep her safe.”

Jon bent and tugged his waterlogged phone out of his jeans pocket. What was it the internet said to do? Rice? A hot lamp? He chose his desk lamp in the living room, a squat thing with a blinding white bulb. He sat, too exhausted to try the TV, too jittery to doze. Selmy’s pistol he laid on the tea table within easy reach, along with the extra magazines.

After what seemed like an eternity, the door to his bedroom clicked open, revealing Dany in all her heat-flushed glory. Jon shot to his feet. _That_ was what she slept in? A powder blue nightgown that fell to mid-thigh, trimmed in white lace clung to her body, those perfect breasts untethered. Predictably, his cock had some very definite opinions about how she looked. No protection in sweatpants. Jon shoved his hand in the pocket, tenting his pants in a hopefully casual gesture.  The air between them felt thick enough to cut.

On impulse, he took her hand and kissed her knuckles. A schmoozy move, but it felt appropriate. A princess and her bodyguard. He liked the vibe. Her cheeks blushed a charming rosy pink.

“The bed’s all made up for you. I’ll take my turn in the shower,” Jon said.

“Ok. Than--”

Jon stopped the words with a fingertip over her lips. So soft. A smile stretched her lips beneath his finger. Jon gulped, overwhelmed by the sparkle her clear violet eyes. She was in his blood now, lodged in his chest.

“I want to keep you safe. You don’t have to thank me for the bleeding shower.” His voice came out all wrong. Harsh, almost angry. Dany didn’t bat an eye. Her posture straightened, defiant.

“I know I don’t have to. But I will. Often and repeatedly, because you deserve to be appreciated.” Given the encounter in the elevator with her ‘thanking’ him, his damned horndog brain ran with the imagery. Well, fuck.

“Suit yourself. Try and get some rest,” he said, ducking for the safety of the bathroom.  

   


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Dany while away the small hours of the night

Chapter 6

                                                                                                                                               

_The man leered down at her, pointed gold teeth dripping blood. The gun welded into his sharp metal talons. A grotesque, steampunk monstrosity. The thick flutter of sinewy wings. WE WARNED YOU. The scream of gunfire. WE WARNED YOU . . . Pain bloomed beneath her sternum. Blood gushed between her fingers. She never felt the blow, only the cold, the aching cold . . ._

“Dany!” Jon’s voice dragged her from the mire of her nightmare. She blinked at his concerned face leaning over her, lit by a thin sliver of lamplight from the room behind him. Panting, damp with sweat, Dany struggled upright on the soft mattress.

“Are you ok? You shouted in your sleep.”

“Nightmare. It’s ok. I’m ok,” Daenerys breathed.

The light washed lovingly over his body, painting his sculpted beauty in gold and black. Eager for distraction, her mind slavered over the bulk of his naked chest, the corded strength of his arms. His eyes were pools of inky black. The shivering part of her soul hungered for his strength and warmth to banish the shadows. All her designs on seducing him once he finished washing up vanished as soon as her head hit the pillow. Forty-eight hours with only three hours of sleep was just too much.

“What time is it?” she asked.

“Ten ‘til two. You should try and go back to sleep.” Mm, his voice was sleep-rough murmur.

“Sit with me a minute?” Daenerys asked. Wheedling, clingy. Yuck. Despite that, Jon didn’t hesitate.

“Sure. Hang on a second. Down, Ghost.” Jon padded out of the room. The big white dog nudged her arm with his wet nose, his fluffy white tail wagging in cautious concern.

“I’m all right, love. Thank you for checking on me,” Daenerys said, petting his big head. Ghost padded across the carpet to his dog bed and curled up, another warm, watchful presence. Jon returned, and set the gun on his bedside table.

“Just in case,” he said. Dany’s heart melted. Her brave protector.

“You sure you’re ok?” Jon said, his hand hovering over hers for one breathless second. Daenerys hoped for a touch. To her disappointment, Jon’s hand dropped to rest on the bed. Daenerys licked her lips.

“I dreamed of the man with the gun. He fired and I--” Jon’s bristly eyebrows crinkled together, dark eyes stormy. Then he laid a hand over hers and Daenerys soaked up the comfort of that casual touch.

“It’s ok, Dany. You’re safe. You’re safe here.” The words touched the anxious part inside her that waited for the hammer to fall. Tears welled in her eyes.

“I know,” she said, her voice froggy.

“Hey, hey.”

Jon moved, sliding beneath the heap of blanket and comforter to curl beside her. Daenerys nearly sobbed as his arm slid around her, tucking her against his side. Sensation swamped her: the hard warmth of him pressed against her, the softness of his shirt beneath her cheek, the faint scent of laundry detergent filling her nose. Daenerys snuffled, the tears leaking faster. Vis would mock her sniveling, as he often had after Mother died. But Jon didn’t seem to mind. Vast oceans of pain opened inside. Tears of fear, of loneliness, of ancient grief. Through it all, Jon crooned and rocked her, the low burr of his voice a comfort.

Daenerys dragged in a shuddering breath, gathering the shreds of her composure. _Poor weepy thing_ , a voice snarled mockingly in her head. Mopping her face with the hem of the sheet, she risked a glance at Jon. In the thin ribbon of lamplight, his expression held only sympathy.

“Thank you for being so considerate,” Daenerys said, “Sorry I fell apart on you.” A shadow of a grin lit his face as he scratched his bearded chin.

“You’ve been through one hell of a night. Do you want to talk about it?” he asked, tentatively. Daenerys paused, pondering the question. Maybe rehashing it would shed some light of the wheres and whys.

“That’s a good idea. It all started a couple years ago. I was just getting Breaking Chains off the ground. Fundraising was a breeze since Rising Dragon was doing so well. We’d just closed a deal with Iron Bank Inc. to--”

“What does your company _do_ , exactly?”

“Dragon? Oh we’re a financial brokerage firm. Wealth management, asset protection, business law, that sort of thing. Vis is working on his MBA.”

“Fancy.” The succinct word laden with dubious overtones made her grin. Vis did enjoy prestige and titles, much like their late father did.

“Yeah. Anyway, Breaking Chains was just getting off the ground. I wanted it to be a resource for community outreach programs and at-risk communities. We opened an office here, and another in the Bay of Dragons, near Yunkai.” Jon scowled.

“Shit, I’ve read about that place. Sex slavery?”

“Yes,” Daenerys said, a familiar anger stirring in her gut, “working with the DA, I saw theft, murder, drug and gang violence. I thought I understood what man could inflict on itself. I was wrong. It gets so much worse. I swore I would stop it if I could.”

“Breaking Chains does great work. I’ve heard my brother talk about it. I read about you in _The Citadel_.” The pride in his voice warmed her to her toes.

“Vis was so proud about that piece. Our father was on the cover too when he ran for office,” Daenerys said. Thinking about Aerys Targaryen always filled her with a strange pain made up of a mosaic of neglect, resentment, and guilt.

“The threats started after that,” she said.

Jon was silent for a long moment. It was a quality she liked about him: the time he took to choose his words.

“You had money, public opinion, and a billion-crown company to back up your good intentions. Vermin skitter away when a light shines on them. And your programs cut into their business,” Jon said. Daenerys smirked.

“Still, I wonder why they want to _kill_ me. Breaking Chains would continue on even if they succeed.” Jon’s grip tightened around her, a pleasant pressure.

“They won’t succeed. I’ll kick their teeth in.” A delicate savagery underscored his words.

A jolt of mingled awe and arousal zinged through her. It was a thrilling feeling to have him want to protect her. She would cling to it as long as he let her. Jon absently wound a strand of her hair around his finger.  

After a moment, he said: “I think the fuckers want to intimidate not only you, but everyone else. If they can get to you, someone smart and rich and famous, what chance does someone else have?”

“Good point.”

Silence crept between them, as warm and comfortable as an old sweater. Daenerys nuzzled her cheek against his hard chest, biting back a purr. Sleep frayed her thoughts to disconnected fluff, the music of his heartbeat under her ear lulling her.

“And the fiancé? Do you want to talk about it?” Jon’s voice was quiet, as if he hoped she was asleep. Daenerys blinked, leaden emotion falling over her like a wet blanket. Rolling on her back, she addressed her words to the hypnotic pass of ceiling fan blades. Her counselor told her talking through her emotions was therapeutic.

“It wasn’t always like this. When he proposed, I was so happy. With Stormcrow and Rising Dragon together, we could change the world for the better.” After a moment, Jon’s voice answered.

“It sounds cold,” Jon said softly.

Daenerys swallowed the spark of irritation. Cold. It wasn’t the first time she’d been called that. _Dragon Queen_. _Icy Bitch_. She had her father’s temper, but had smothered and quenched that flame to a flicker. More tears welled up, creeping in ticklish streaks into her hair. Jon didn’t know what it was to have all your love poured into a shiny urn, to watch your home disappear into mist. Coldness was armor.   

“Cold is safe.”

She heard the judgement in his answering silence.

“It took us almost fifteen years to build Dragon back up from nothing. Long, hard, hungry years. Then, Daario was there. He was handsome and smart and so funny . . . he could always make me laugh. Vis and I were working sixty-hour weeks to stay afloat and pay my way through law school. Being with Daario was easy. His partnership gave us the push we needed to get Dragon off the ground.”

“I’m sorry. I can’t imagine how hard that was for you. Still, The Asshole treated you badly. He earned his title,” Jon said. Daenerys snorted.

“‘The Asshole?’ He did earn that, didn’t he? With any luck, he won’t run to the press and our stock won’t drop seven points.”

 “Don’t worry. You’ll be back to kicking ass and making money hand over fist any day now,” Jon said. The note of admiration in his voice thawed her a little. Jon wasn’t put off by her prickliness, or coldness. He nestled close, guarded her back.

The ceiling fan creaked in a pleasant rhythm, a counterpoint to the blow of central air. Time dilated in a half-doze. At every shift or sound, Jon would stroke her back. A reflexive comforting gesture. Daenerys’ heart lurched.  

“Jon?” she asked.

He grunted in answer.

“What about you? I didn’t even know your last name until a couple hours ago,” she asked gently. He sighed through his nose.

“What do you want to know?”

Daenerys peered up at him, struck anew by just how damn handsome he was. Sooty eyes and artfully messy black hair. She checked the impulse to pet the roughness of his beard.

“Simple stuff. Where are you from? What do you do other than work at The Oasis? What’s your favorite takeout place?”

“Mm, takeout. There’s a great family-run Lysene place down on Loom Street. Fried mango and spicy noodles.”

“Yum.”

“I work construction with Wilde Co. We just finished a contract reno with Jay Westerling. I grew up in the North district, near Winterfell. My mom was from White Harbor. She died when I was little.” Daenerys’ grip tightened around him. Maybe he did understand. 

“I’m sorry, Jon.” His brown eyes slipped closed, as if to hide from her gaze.

“It was a long time ago. It’s late. You should try and sleep,” he said, and began to move, but Daenerys locked her arms around his chest.

“Stay. Please,” she whispered. To hell with clinginess. The words he’d pulled out made her feel raw, vulnerable in a way being threatened with a gun hadn’t. Barry and her security team would be here in a matter of hours. If she was going to coax him into bed with her, this was a good place to start.  

Jon held her gaze for a long moment, and a pleasant fission of desire trickled through her. He gave a mute nod, and they shuffled about. Daenerys curled on her side, nuzzling into the softness of his pillow. Jon lay on his back, a thin span of mattress separating them. She was sure sleep would elude her with Jon behind her, exuding sexiness, but exhaustion won out. Daenerys slipped under with barely a thought.

 

~

 

Jon crept toward wakefulness in groggy stages. A half-delirious sense of relaxation and well-being permeated him, like he was a feather floating on a blood-warm current, light and lazy. Without a care in the world. Sensation crowded to the fore. First, he was suffocatingly hot. Sweat slicked his chest and underarms. Second, something was tickling his nose. Jon cracked open one eye. It was a cloud of blond hair gleaming silver in the light bleeding through the gap in the curtains. Jon lay spooned up behind Dany, his arm tucked around her waist, his morning erection throbbing hopefully against her ass . . .  Jon glanced at the digital clock on the bedside table. Two-thirty. _Shit_. They’d been asleep for over twelve hours.

Every other thought flew from his mind when she shifted on her back and her eyes fluttered open. Gods, how was she so damn beautiful? Her long hair was a thick silver wave across the pillow, violet eyes fogged and dreamy framed by those expressive brows. Those pink lips, the heartbreaking curve of her chin. A lovely, fey thing. Gorgeous with a steel spine and a prickly, vulnerable, compassionate heart.

Dany twisted in his embrace to face him, twining her limbs with his. Mm, the cool slide of silk, and then . . . oh _fuck_ , she was naked underneath. Nothing but milk-white thighs and the tender mound of her pussy, pubic hair trimmed to a fine fuzz.

Jon dragged in a breath to beg for mercy when she kissed him. It was bigger than him. A huge, inevitable pull like the moon singing to the tide. Jon abandoned himself to the give and take of it, tangling tongues, the glide of lips, the throbbing build of pleasure. Her hands framed his face, cherishing him. It ached in his heart, his balls. The silk of her nightgown snagged on his callused palms, her body warm and firm beneath it, her ribcage rising and falling in a swift cadence. The next he knew, she was beneath him, squirming and grinding against his body, his cock. Oh yeah, he could bring her off just like this, he could feel a faint hint of her wetness through his sweatpants, she was so fucking _hot_ \--

Jon broke away, dragging in much-needed oxygen. Each breath drew in more of her intoxicating scent, and inside he howled. A wolf baying at the bewitching moon. Wildness and longing. _Great job, idiot. What happened to being a gentleman, her loyal guard?_ The tide of self-recrimination battered him like blows. What kind of scumbag was he, rutting against her like an animal after what she’d been through? That animal side roared that she was his to claim, to _plunder_.

 “We . . . we have to stop,” Jon said, his chest heaving as if he’d run from here to the peak of Aegon’s Hill.

“Why? Come _here_!” Dany said, dragging him down by a handful of his hair. She kissed him again with a bold thrust of her tongue. Jon groaned, suckling that deft pink tongue, his hands wadded in her bunched nightgown. Her hands slipped beneath his shirt. Light, maddening touches ghosting down his sweat-slick belly, plucking at his nipples. Arousal was a type of madness, and she’d goaded him to a fever-pitch. Blood roared in his ears.

“No. _Stop_ ,” Jon said, pinning her hands to the mattress. Jon steeled himself against the sight of her in his bed, flushed and half-naked and wrecked beneath him. Thighs spread, with him nestled between them. Seven fucking hells. Dany gulped, looking near-tears.

“Why?” she asked again in a raw whisper.

“Because if I lure you into my apartment to fuck you after you’ve been threatened and hit and nearly killed, _hours_ after you broke up with your ex, that makes me an opportunistic piece of shit,” Jon said, stroking the inside of her wrist with his thumb.

“ _Lure_ me? I wanted to come here!” Daenerys hissed, squirming in his grip. His trapped cock throbbed against her inner thigh. Jon grunted, clinging to intelligibility by his fingernails.

“Still. You’re in a tough place right now, with the attack and the fiancé . . .” he trailed off. The words sounded weak to his own ears. All his mental facilities were tied up in keeping her still. He needed every ounce of mental energy to go toe to toe with a wicked-sharp lawyer brain like Dany’s.

“Let go,” she said, brow forked like a lightning bolt.

“Truce?” Jon asked with a dubious tilt of his chin.

“Truce,” she agreed.

Jon eased off her, grateful for a minute of breathing room. Dany rolled on her side, pinning him in place with a blazing sharp glare.

“I’m not fragile, Jon. Neither am I an idiot.”

Jon blew out a deep breath, raking his fingers through his shaggy hair.

“I know that, but . . .”

Dany blinked, tears beading fat on her eyelashes. She tucked her chin, a veil of hair partially hiding her face. Oh shit. Her voice emerged in a miffed clip: “If you didn’t want me, you could have said so.” Jon snorted, pointedly glancing at his tented sweatpants.

“Don’t manipulate me. You’re gorgeous and you know it. I’ve been hard almost since the moment I met you.” Dany blushed.

“That’s sweet to say. I’m sure I look like a wreck,” she said, finger-combing her mussed hair. After a beat, she asked: “And really?”

“Really what?” Jon asked, suddenly fighting a smile.

“That you’ve been ah . . . aroused since you met me?”

“Pretty much,” Jon said bashfully, “I’m not proud of it.”

“I bet that happens all the time massaging women you find attractive.”

“Wouldn’t know. It’s never happened before.” A smile crept across her kiss-bruised lips.

“Is that so?”     

“Yeah,” he said softly.

A warm moment stretched on. Damn, he was in deep and kept wading deeper.

“Dany, I’m trying to do the right thing here,” Jon said, raw with entreaty.

Dany scowled, bursting up with a flutter of bedclothes. Jon’s breathing ratcheted up as she straddled his waist. His cock tucked against his belly between them. He nearly whimpered. Even the chafe of their clothing was almost too much. That low rumble of arousal revved up like a racecar engine. His hands reflexively clasped her hips to steady her. That shimmering energy, warm and vital under his hands. Sunlight and shadow painted her in a tiger’s stripes. Lithe and poised. 

“That’s admirable of you, Jon. Doing what you think is right. But did you stop to ask me what _I_ wanted?” Transfixed by her vivid gaze, the blaze of her personality, Jon gave a mute shake of his head.

“I’m sorry,” he said, sitting up.

Nose to nose with her, Jon saw her dilated pupils, the leap of her pulse at her throat. He loved that. This vibrant, intelligent, feisty woman wanted him. It made him feel powerful, strong. A remnant of primitive First Men compulsion embedded in his brain. Instead of clamoring madness, this rush of arousal rose from a simmer, a steady thrum of heat from contact.  

“What do you want, Dany?” he said, his voice a low rasp. He watched the plump curve of her lower lip, moistened by a flash of her pink tongue. _Sexy_. Jon’s hands kneaded her hips, restless and hungry.

“I don’t want to fuck this up,” he said in a harsh whisper. Dany leaned closer, a centimeter away.

“I want _you_ ,” she whispered, the puff of her breath tickling his chin. Jon grinned, shaking his head. He nuzzled her cheek, his beard rasping her soft skin.

“Not good enough. I need specifics. Do you want me to be your boyfriend? Do you want me to fuck you? Is it a one-and-done type thing? Or more?” His buddies, especially Theon, would be cringing. Guys, according to Theon, didn’t press the where-is-this-relationship-going angle, under any circumstances.

Dany bumped his forehead with hers. It was a surprisingly tender gesture that undid him like a knot on a string. Oh fuck. Who was he kidding anyway? He’d be whatever she wanted. Boyfriend, fucktoy, masseur, whatever. Just whistle and here comes Jon trotting at her heels.

“I like you. S—Sex isn’t something that comes easy to me. Commitment either. I know we don’t know each other very well, but I know I want you.”

“Mmm,” Jon said, his eyes falling closed.

Those words sounded so good in her uppity Crown district accent. His brain dissected and poured over the second sentence. Had The Asshole ridiculed her in bed? If so, he might be next on the growing list of people Jon needed to kick the shit out of. _Slow and easy then, lad._ Jon breathed a kiss on her lips.

“Come here, then,” he whispered with a wicked smile.     

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life intrudes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The smut shall come, my friends. The plot got in the way. More up soon!

Chapter 7

 

 _Oh gods._ Daenerys bit her lower lip, her heartbeat thudding against her ribs. Jon, poised over her, flushed and tousled and sexy . . . oh _gods_. A scratch and canine whine at the door popped their bubble. Jon froze, dark eyes flying wide.

“Shit. Ghost!” he said. Reddened lips formed a rueful smile. His fingers raked through his mussed black curls in what she realized was an endearing tick.

“We overslept. It’s been an eternity since he’s been out. I got to take care of him really quick. I’m sorry to break the mood.”

Daenerys murmured something consoling, hiding her disappointment. The build-up was getting a little ridiculous. Jon pecked a kiss on the back of her hand, like a courtier, before slipping from bed. He folded the pistol into her hands, all levity gone.

“I’ll be back in ten minutes, tops, but in the off chance there’s a bad guy, just point and shoot. The safety’s off. Be sure to keep your wrist locked for the kick,” Jon said, his face serious and scowling. Daenerys gulped. The bright, vivid feeling she woke up with drained away. The world outside was fanged and hungry, waiting to rend her to pieces. When Jon was close, all else was forgotten. Jon noticed the shift and pecked a kiss on her lips.

“Hey, it’s ok. I’ll be back in a flash.”

Jon wedged open the door, warding off Ghost’s excited circling with a knee.

“Down, you lout! C’mon we’re going!”

The front door slammed shut behind him with a reassuring _clonk_ of the deadbolt. Daenerys rolled over, burying her face in Jon’s pillow. Mm, that deep masculine smell with a tang of woodsy aftershave. It steadied her. The service pistol was heavier than she thought it would be, cold and reassuring in her hands. Rolling out of bed, she hurried to the bathroom. Simple things like combing her hair and brushing her teeth made her feel normal.

The central air hummed, the walls creaked and settled. Warm wedges of sunlight poured in from the windows. Gods, had she ever slept this late in her life? She tiptoed through his apartment, eager to soak up hints about him. Crushing like a teenager. Tidy, almost utilitarian. No wall art or decorations. The kitchen was clean, for a guy’s place, a couple dishes soaking in the sink. Daenerys put the battered kettle on for tea. The tea tin on the counter was a full-bodied variety from the Summer Islands. The living room was sparsely furnished with a comfy suede couch and an older model flatscreen. The end tables, desk, and tea table were made by hand, she noticed the loving detail in the carving and polish. He said he worked construction. But he seemed to have a particular talent as a woodworker.

A framed picture showed Jon with his arm around a slender dark-haired girl. His sister Arya, if she could guess. Both had the same wide, square-toothed smile. Behind them was the windswept coniferous beauty of the North district. Maybe Winterfell, where he grew up. A flat buzz and generic droning startled her. Daenerys blinked at the square flip phone Jory bought her. The only ones who had this number were her security team and her brother. Daenerys flicked it open and stabbed TALK.

“Hello?”

“Daenerys? What happened?” Her joints turned to water at the sound of Vis’s familiar, querulous voice.

“Vis, thank the gods. Barry said he talked--”

“Yes, yes, Selmy filled me in on the attack. Working with undesirables always leads to this. I’ve always told you nothing profitable will come of it, but you insisted. Such disgusting underworld tactics. Brutes. What _happened_ with _Daario_?” Daenerys took a steadying breath. She paced the length of Jon’s living room, the worn carpet tickling the soles of her feet. Barry’s pistol felt heavy in her hand.

“Um, we broke up.”

“You can’t be serious, Daenerys! Stormcrow is our foremost partner! I’m on the jet right now, flying home. Our stocks dipped three points this morning.” Her stomach plummeted. _He went to the press, that spiteful worm!_ Gods, she could see it already, her face plastered on every tabloid. A CEO dumped, the icy Dragon Queen spurned. All that sexist shit she loathed.

“That’s barely a dip. We’ll be fine. Give it a news cycle, people will get over it,” she said soothingly. Dragon was safe in Tyrion’s hands. His spin team was unrivaled.

“No, you’re going to patch things up with Daario. Now!” The beginnings of anger blew on all those convoluted betrayed embers from the night before. _The dragon pin she bought Daario for an anniversary present gleaming on his lapel. Daario’s handsome face slack in bliss. Jeyne’s black pencil skirt rucked up--_

“He was cheating on me, Viserys. I caught him, red-handed. I’m not going back.”

“You will or I’ll--” There it was: Vis’s forte of bluster and threats. When that didn’t work, cruel words or blows, when he was drunk enough.

“I. Am. Not. Going. _Back_ ,” she hissed. The phone was silent save for Vis’s sawing breathing for a long while. Daenerys humored him because he was her only family and he had sacrificed a great deal to give her an education, but he had nothing to stand on when it came down to it. She was Dragon’s CEO and controlling interest on the board. 

“Where are you? Maybe once we can have a civilized conversation in person, you’ll be more reasonable,” Vis said sulkily.

“I’m staying at a friend’s. Call me at this number when you land,” Daenerys said, snapping the phone shut before he could get another word in. Sweat dewed on her face, her pulse loud in her ears. Vis’s bullying had been played out when she was ten and Mother was dying, but it never failed to get under her skin.

In the kitchen, the kettle warbled. Daenerys moved it off the burner and added the tea in two neat scoops, setting it aside to steep. A breath of tea-scented air calmed her. Motes of dust lazed in a sunbeam. The phone rang again.

“Hello?”

“Hello? May I speak to Daenerys Targaryen?” the voice held a thick Flea Bottom accent, but was cautiously friendly. He stumbled a bit over her impossible Valyrian name.

“Who may I ask is calling?”

“This is Detective Davos Seaworth with the City Watch. I’ve been assigned to your case.” Her shoulders relaxed. Daenerys resumed her pacing, albeit a bit slower. It was a strange tick of hers, but she could never sit still on the phone.

“This is Daenerys, how can I help you, Detective?”

“Yes, m’lady, erm, there is no easy way to say this, but when the goldcoats arrived at the scene of the assault, the suspect had fled.”

“What?” Daenerys asked, clutching the phone tight in one hand, the pistol in the other.

“The suspect fled the scene,” the detective repeated, “The officers recovered your cellphone and wallet. The crime techs found evidence of the suspect’s DNA as well as yours and a third party--”

“Yes, Jon Snow. He’s a friend. How . . . how is possible he fled? The attacker was knocked out cold.” The hand holding the phone shook.

“In your statement, you mentioned the suspect was affiliated with some sort of a group?”

“The Harpy Triumvirate, yes. They’ve been sending me death threats.” Good. Her voice was still steady.

“Are you in safe place, m’lady?” Daenerys cast a glance around Jon’s apartment. Though unfamiliar, it felt warm and sturdy, much like Jon himself. The gun had an encouraging heft in her hand.

“Yes,” she said.

“A video message was found on your laptop, apparently from this Triumvirate.”

Hot and cold washed over her in sickening waves. The threats had always been repetitive, obnoxious, poorly spelled. It led her to believe that no matter how widespread, the harpies were petty thugs. They never sent a media file. Even a hint of sophistication was enough to rattle her at this point.

“Send it to me.”

“M’lady, I don’t think--”

“ _Send_ it to me.”

“It’s . . . disturbing.” Her stomach lurched.

“I understand,” she said.

“Maybe you could give us your insights. If you recognize anything. Watch at your own discretion. I’ll be in touch,” Seaworth said gently. Daenerys traded information with the detective and hung up. A moment later, the phone pinged with a media file. Daenerys swallowed hard and pressed PLAY.

The playback was grainy, glitchy, on the minuscule screen. Through the blaring of the speaker processing, Daenerys made out the familiar walls of her apartment. A block of ice congealed in her belly, the cold creeping up her chest, her throat. The apartment was destroyed, much like she’d last seen it. But on the bed . . . Fine hairs rose on the back of her neck. On the bed was the body of a woman. Something about the positioning, her shredded clothing, the dark stain on the bedding . . . oh gods, they’d raped her.

Gagged and snuffling, tears leaking from green eyes. Her hair was silver-blond, like Dany’s own. Nausea roiled in her belly. Disembodied black-gloved hands hovered over the stubby ponytail, gave it a sharp yank. Her yelp was muffled. The duct tape covering her mouth had ‘Daenerys’ written in crude black lettering. A knife appeared in the intruder’s grip, its silver point tracing the woman’s throat. Hopping against the hammer-beat of the woman’s pulse.

“ _Once King Joffery shed a tear/From a woman’s smile spread ear to ear/The bleeding smile all will fear . ._.” the sing-songy rhyme sang in a rough, accented voice. The video cut out as the knife bit in and the woman began to scream.                

 

~

 

The string between he and Dany was stretched taut. He could feel it somewhere between his shoulder blades. An itch. Ghost seemed to sense his urgency and finished his business in the empty lot two blocks down without complaint. Jon peered up the street toward Visenya’s Hill and The Oasis. His old glasses felt too heavy on his ears. The heavy black frames pinched the bridge of his nose. The goldcoats had been patrolling thicker, he noticed. Good.

The air was cool after the drenching storm, but the sun shone warm on his shoulders. More clouds brewed out toward the Blackwater, a tang of ozone in the air. Jon dragged in the scent of wet pavement, the greasy food from the pub down the street, and the brine blowing in from the sea. The street felt quiet and industrious.

Jon tried not to think about the half-naked woman in his apartment, or her clearly expressed wishes to fuck him. It made his mouth water, just to think about it. 

“Come on, Ghost! Let’s go home,” Jon said, picking up the pace.

Jon scanned his building with fresh eyes. The keypad at the lobby was a good start, but anyone could buzz anyone else in: takeout guy, friend of a friend, whatever. Anonymity was their best protection, fifteen floors of apartments to comb through. That plus the one hundred fifty-pound dog, thirty rounds of ammunition, and Jon himself. Enough for a scumbag ex, but a multinational evil crime syndicate? Gods help him.

Jon and Ghost clattered up the stairs to his floor. Sam met him on landing. Relief lightened his face.

“Jon! I’m so glad you’re ok! Gilly and I were calling you all night!” Sam grabbed him an awkward one-armed hug.

“Sorry, Sam. I had a rough night after work. A friend called needing help and my phone took a dunk in a puddle,” Jon said, with an abashed smile.

“Oh my. Is everything all right?” Sam asked. Jon shrugged, feeling uncomfortable and underdressed in his sweats.

“It will be. I better get in and check on her.”

“Oh, she’s staying with you?” Sam said in a stage-whisper. Jon nodded.

“I’ll leave you to it, then! Give her my best. I’m on my way to pick up Little Sam from school.”

“See you later. Give Little Sam a hug for me.”

Jon rapped softly on the door, then twisted the key in the lock. Ghost shoved the door open with his nose, shaggy tail wagging madly.

“Jon?” Dany’s water-logged voice sent adrenaline singing through him. Jon slammed the door shut and twisted the lock. In a flash, the door was barricaded and Jon cast a frantic glance around.

“Dany?” He heard the sharp note of fear in his own voice, but couldn’t help it.

The living room was empty, the homey scent of tea wafted from the kitchen. Ghost was way ahead of him, padding across the carpet and jumping up on the bed to slobber Dany. Jon elbowed the dog out of the way, scrubbing his fuzzy ears in apology. Huddled in the bed, Daenerys looked at him with haunted, tear-stained eyes. His mouth dry as dust, Jon knelt beside her. The look on her face gave his heart a sharp twist. He scanned her, searching for injuries.

“What is it? What happened?” He plucked the gun up and set it on the bedside table. Dany dragged him close, nestling into him as if he were her lighthouse in the storm. Reflexively, he hugged her. Tight, protective. The combat energy still hammered away inside him, and seeing her cry made him want to kill something.

“They killed her! They killed her because of me!” Oh gods. His face went numb. His gut clenched.

“Who? _What happened_?”

Daenerys sobered with some effort, sucking in shaky, whistling breaths. Peeling back to look at him, her eyes shut briefly. Tears flashed down unchecked in silver streaks. Jon petted her cheeks, smoothing away the tears. It hurt to see them.

“A detective from the Watch called. The guy who attacked us was gone by the time they got there.” Jon frowned.

“How is that possible? The only way he was getting up was on a stretcher. You’ve got a wicked right cross, if I remember right,” Jon said. The feeble joke did its job; she gave him a little travesty of a smile.

“He got away somehow. They . . . they left a message on my laptop. Of . . . oh _gods_. They . . . they raped and killed a woman with my coloring in _my_ apartment. An innocent woman is dead because of me.”

“Shit,” Jon said. There weren’t words for that. The mind boggled. Sick bastards. Jon’s fists clenched, fingernails digging into his palms. Pain helped contain this gushing well of feeling.

“Did . . . did the goldcoats find her there?” he asked. Horror upon horrors. _I’d burn the bed and move to a different city if I were her._ Dany shook her head.

“No. They covered their tracks.”

“I’m sorry, Dany,” Jon said, because he couldn’t think of anything else.

Jon wrapped his arms around her as the storm of tears blew through her. He rubbed her back, petted her hair, crooning nonsense, feeling like a useless lump. Dany breathed a harsh, heart-breaking little sigh, leaning into his touch like a kitten. After a time, her reddened eyes met his.

The kiss bloomed fully-formed. He tasted the salt of her tears and the sweetness of her beneath. Joy and pain. Jon stayed perfectly still as she kissed him, though everything inside surged toward her in answer to the unspoken question. Yes. _Yes, I’m here. Yes, I’m yours._

“Jon, make love to me.” 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Dany give in to their feelings for each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this smut is pretty damn hot if I do say so myself. Enjoy!
> 
> A nerdy side note, since Valyrian is the basis of law language instead of our own Latin, thus affidavit is changed kiviovit which has the root word in Valyrian 'promise.'

 

Chapter 8

 

 _Jon, make love to me._ How could any man alive resist those words? The imperative and entreaty wrapped in them.

“Dany, I don’t--” Jon began. Fire glowed and crackled in those violet eyes. Aw, fuck. He was so screwed.

“You want me to beg for it? I’ll have a _kiviovit_ notarized if you like,” she said. The snark almost made him laugh.

The proposition put some color back in her cheeks. No more bloodless pallor. The mental gaffe made him wince. Didn’t touch his erection though. Nope, as soon as she kissed him he was back to full-salute. It was embarrassing. He’d almost gotten used to functioning while rock hard. _Don’t drive or operate heavy machinery._

“I won’t argue with you on that, Counsellor,” Jon said, rubbing her upper arms, “I just want to be absolutely clear, what with the video and everything.”

“I am _fine_ ,” she said, raising her right hand as if swearing an oath, “I, Daenerys Targaryen, being of sound mind and body, do so consent to enthusiastic participation in carnal acts with one, Jon Snow, dated today, the eighteenth day of the ninth month.” Despite himself, Jon’s shoulders quivered with repressed laughter.

“‘Enthusiastic participation?’ I like that bit.”

Daenerys’s answering smile only wobbled a little, her gaze clear and steady. Damn, how did opposing lawyers face her down on a daily basis? Her strength blazed out of her, a beacon on a hill.

“I thought you might. So?” she asked. Jon settled back on his haunches and folded his arms over his chest.

“We go slow. If I get a hint that you’re bluffing through anything, we stop cold, got it? That’s the only way we’re doing this.” Something nudged into her forthright countenance. Daenerys chewed on her lower lip, expressive eyebrows puckered.

“That’s really not necessary. It’s better if we just get to it before--”

“Before what? You talk yourself out of it?” Jon asked with a scowl. Daenerys flushed crimson, picking at the ragged edges of her fingernails.

“No, not at all. We should keep going before . . . before it . . . fizzles.”

“Fizzles? I’m not gonna lose interest, babe. Trust me on that. If you have any doubts, ask him,” Jon said, gesturing toward his erection. It stood up, undaunted. She startled him by reaching her hand down to grip his cock. Even blunted by his clothing, her tentative touch sent pleasure curling warm through his veins. Jon hissed in a breath through his teeth. Daenerys stroked him slowly, cautiously, fascination kindled in her rapt gaze. Mm . . . yeah.

“I was talking about me,” she said quietly, “I can never seem to . . . relax.”

Jon frowned, digesting her words. A difficult task, considering her maddening stroking.

“When we were in the elevator, was it . . . fizzly? Or earlier this morning?” he asked. Daenerys tittered nervously. Damn, she was cute.

“No,” she whispered.

“Let’s start there, then,” Jon said, leaning close to breathe a kiss on her lips. He sank into the kiss, reveling her sharp intake of breath, the sweet pressure of her mouth, warm, wet stroke of her tongue, her taste . . .  Jon lost himself in it, braced on the bed above her.

Dany slid her fingers into his hair, tugging when he found a particularly sensitive spot. He grunted at the faint sting of pain that only quickened the drumbeat of arousal. _Slow. Slow._ He concentrated on measuring his movements, a slow careful dance. Drinking in her face for signs of distress. It added to the tension, an anxious sort of tenderness. His hands molded to the warm shape of her, tracing the slope of her collarbones, cupping the tender weight of her breasts, sliding down to clasp her hips. Daenerys made a soft sound, straining up toward him. Soon, her hands were tugging at his shirt.

Jon mourned the loss of the kiss as he broke away to peel off his shirt. Daenerys’ trembling hands shucked off her nightgown, leaving her naked beneath him. Jon froze, winded by the glory of her. The modest heft of her breasts topped with pert pink nipples, miles of perfect milk-white skin, the dip of her navel, the soft mound of her pussy . . .

“Gods, Dany, you’re so fucking beautiful.” Her hands smoothed over his stomach, his chest, warm and shy. A gentle, ticklish sensation.

“So are you,” she said, tugging him down by the waistband of his sweatpants. Jon grinned, pressing a lingering kiss to her soft lips. Shoving down his pants and underwear, he squirmed out of the shackle of his clothes. His cock pulsed in the cooler air, the head gleaming fluid. Daenerys gripped him, stroking. Too light, too gentle. Nevertheless, Jon choked out a strangled sound. Pleasure ratcheted higher, his heartbeat pounding loud in his ears. Jon clasped his hand over hers, guiding her in a tight, sinuous rhythm.

“Yes. Just like that.” Jon arched helplessly into her touch as Dany squeezed and stroked. Oh fuck, she was so beautiful. Cheeks flushed pink, pupils fat and dark. The pleasure built . . . _oh_. Too much. Heat poured off him.

“Wait, wait. I need a break,” Jon said, prying her hand off and kissing her palm. Dany’s grin was wicked, and winded him surely as a blow. Jon gulped down air, breathing in the tantalizing scent of her. Warm and womanly with a tang of sweat and shampoo. Daenerys nuzzled his nose with her own.       

“I um, have an implant for birth control. And I . . . I saw my doctor last week and got tested. So everything’s good.”

Jon closed his eyes, burying his burning face in the silky cloud of her hair. Bless her. The safe sex talk. Normal, practical things every conscientious person discussed before jumping into bed with someone. The constant thrum of sex hormones pumped through him when she was around had dumbed him down.

“I get tested regularly too. I always use condoms. I was checked a month ago. Haven’t been with anyone since then,” he said, suddenly feeling shy.

Berating himself for not thinking of it sooner, Jon rummaged in his bedside table for a condom. Daenerys lay back against a nest of pillows, picking at her fingers, watching him with wide eyes. Jon crawled closer, stretching beside her on the pillows.

“Slow,” Jon repeated, kissing her nose.

Kissing was good. He kept them soft, light pecks, his hands smoothing down the warm fine-grained skin of her arms. Massages had relaxed her, maybe that was his best bet. Jon nestled closer, shivering at the delicious press of bare skin.          

“Relax,” he whispered, deepening the kiss with a languid flick of his tongue.

Time stretched on. Pleasure bloomed warm and simmering. Jon kissed her neck, her collarbone, laving her breasts with his tongue before working his way back to her mouth. _Yes_. Dany’s mouth opened like a flower to him. He loved the salty tang of her skin, the texture of her nipples as he suckled them. Drinking in her heat, her beauty. Every gasp and sigh was his reward, her fingers carding through his hair. Jon kissed his way down her belly, settling between her thighs. He petted the seam of her pussy, already slick. _Fuck_.

“So wet already,” Jon growled. The ache in his balls intensified. He wished for the clarity of focus he found during massage, but the instead of a cool zen bubble, arousal made it a molten, drunken snare swallowing him whole.  

“Jon,” Dany groaned, her voice low and needy. Jon pressed a soothing kiss to her inner thigh, the skin tender and warm.

A soft lick at her pretty pink clit sent her squirming beneath him. Oh _fuck_ , the taste of her, musky and salty-sweet, drove him half-mad. Jon spread her open with his tongue, seeking more of that wonderful taste. Such a beautiful pussy. The dark blond hair trimmed to a fine fuzz, the swollen lips coaxed open like flower petals with its gradients of pink and red and scarlet. The scent of her was dizzying. He could get drunk on her. Strong thighs squeezed his head _._

Jon’s mouth watered. He wanted to overwhelm her with pleasure, shove past any nonsense about ‘fizzling.’ Jon lapped at her nether lips alternating between broad and pointed strokes; he suckled on her sweet clit, easing one finger inside. Plush and _tight_. So fucking tight. Dany thrashed and tugged at his hair, broken words and hungry gasps and whimpers falling from her lips. Jon kept at her, feeling the tension building and building . . . oh fuck _yes_. Dany arched beneath him, her muscles spasming around his finger in a powerful orgasm. Hell yeah. Jon groaned against her, easing her through it with gentle kisses. Dany’s dark violet eyes met his over the flushed, quivering terrain of her dewy body.

“More?” Jon whispered. Dany shivered, canting her hips up toward his face in mute plea. She mouthed the word ‘ _more’_ but no sound came out. Jon cupped the sweet weight her buttocks, spreading her wider.

He dove headlong into ‘more,’ licking and sucking and loving her gorgeous pussy until she came . . . and came . . . and _came._ He drank up her squeals and delicious shudders. Jon squeezed her buttocks, teasing the damp crease with his littlest finger. He imagined sliding a finger inside her back entrance, then he imagined fucking her like that and he had to peel away to breathe down his own arousal. Just the thought of it had his dick throbbing.  

“Come here. Oh Jon, come here, please,” Dany said, her voice hoarse and sexy.

Jon wiped his face and slithered up the length of her body, intent on kissing her. He was waylaid by her perfect breasts, tasting the sweat dewed on the undercurve. Daenerys nipped the upper curve of his ear, squirming and rubbing against the heavy pulse of his cock at the crease of her thigh.

“Come _here_ , I need you,” she commanded. A regal queen’s word.

Need—easily appeased by coaxing orgasms from the sweetest pussy he’d ever tasted—stirred and roared inside him. Jon eased back, riffling through the rumpled sheets for the condom. His cock tipped up toward his belly, flushed a deep purple-red, the head gleaming with fluid, his balls heavy. Dany’s warm, wicked hand pumped him. The sight of her dewy and panting was a potent sexual cocktail. Fuck, it would be a miracle if he lasted more than a couple strokes. Arousal pounded along with the rush of blood in his ears, skittered across his skin like static.

He smoothed on the condom and petted the seam of her pussy with his cockhead. The light bump against her clit made her mewl. Her mouth was hot and hungry, finding sensitive spots along his throat. Dany arched for more, her swift panting fluttering against his skin. Jon eased in, moaning at the tightness of her. Sweat broke out. The universe narrowing to this bed, this woman. Gods, even with prolonged foreplay, she was still so . . . fucking . . . _tight_. Soothing his unspoken worry, Dany wiggled and shoved to take more of him, violet eyes wide and dark with hunger.

“Yes, oh yesss,” she said in a low hiss. With one last thrust, he was inside. Fuck, fuck, _fuck_! Hot and wet and silken. The condom was a godssend. It blunted the sensation just enough to keep him sane. Daenerys peppered his face with soft little kisses, her hands smoothing down his back and buttocks. Tender and sweet. So fucking sweet. His heart gave a sharp flip in his chest.

“Gods, Jon. You feel so _good_ ,” she whispered against his lips.

Jon was beyond words. That required higher brain function. Now he was using every ounce of mental fortitude not to pin her down and rut until he came. _Make it worth her while. Hours of orgasms. She’ll stay if you do._ Jon wasn’t sure he liked that voice in his head, but the idea appealed to him. He smoothed his hands up her sides, cupping the weight of her breasts, sweeping her hair into a silver wave on his pillow. Erotic thoughts multiplied in his mind. Fisting his hands in that hair as he fucked her from behind, feeling the plush cling of her pussy as she rode him, watching those puffy pink lips distend around his cock . . .

Jon groped for focus. He guided her legs to frame his hips as he thrust in a slow, heavy rhythm. Dany’s head fell back on the pillow, moist, kiss-bruised lips parted. Her fingernails bit into his back, a pleasant sting. Jon shifted the angle, seeking to rub her clit with the press of his body, searching for the hot spots inside. Her half-startled gasp when he leaned over, weight braced on his elbows, gave him his answer. The tension built, her body writhing beneath him as she strove higher. A couple more thrusts and . . . oh yeah, there she went wailing into another end-of-the-world orgasm. Jon clenched his eyes shut, the slick milking of inner muscle beckoning him to let go. He wrestled down the impulse with some effort.

Jon always enjoyed sex. The buildup was fun, the juicy ride even better, but this . . . this was on a different plane. The way she petted his hair, the deep mysteries of her eyes, the taste and tenderness of her kisses, the sweet grip of her pussy. Dany. _Dany_. Jon drank her in like he was dying of thirst. Her pussy hugged him, a silky instroke, then a plushy cling as he pulled back. The edges of his vision began to pulse. The rhythm twisted into something deeper, hotter. Soon, he was pounding into her.

“Oh, baby. It’s so good. I can’t _stop_ ,” he groaned. It was too rough, too deep. Daenerys’ fingernails raked burning furrows down his back. Her gasps turned to snarls. Jon hissed, fiercely, possessively roused.

“P—Please don’t stop! Oh . . . oh _gods_!” her muscles clamped around him, her head thrown back as she came. White heat gathered at the base of his spine, a warning tingle in his balls.

Jon howled through his climax, come pouring from him in thick spurts. Pleasure arched through him like lightning. Intense, blinding, shrieking whiteness. It seemed to last forever before he slumped boneless on top of her. Scorched skin over blackened bones. Seared by the heat of pleasure, by her glory.

 

~

 

Her toes curled. Daenerys always thought it was a cliché. She disliked cliché on a visceral level. Trite. Redundant. But as aftershocks shivered through her, she found it to be true. Toe-curling, earth-shattering delight. She floated, steam-rolled by pleasure. All those wonderful endorphins doing their thing. Bonding over a life-threatening experience, a massive crush, and steamy helping of incredible sex . . . she was already in serious danger of falling for him, and falling hard. At best, inconvenient. At worst, a soul-shattering mistake.

Daenerys licked her lips, tasting Jon. The skin around her lips and chin tingled with stubble burn. She blinked open tear-blurred eyes, waves of satisfaction washing over her, like the lap of warm surf. The sunlight washing through the thick grey curtains made a diffuse light. Currents of air chilled sweat-damp skin. Jon was a lax, heavy weight on her chest, his cock still thick inside her. Mm, residual pleasure made her muscles tighten around him. He stirred with a low sound, nuzzling the side of her neck. His beard gave a plush prickle.

Daenerys forced life into her arms, smoothing her hands down the corded strength of his back. Gods, his _body_. Masculine perfection in the slopes of muscle, the dusting of body hair, the girth of his cock. Daenerys pressed a kiss to his wild hair. Jon groaned, heaving himself onto his elbows. Dark eyes swallowed her whole, deep and soulful. His reddened mouth quirked into a small, shy smile. Daenerys’s heart lurched. Yeah, she was falling fast.

“That was, um . . .” he said, his voice deliciously rough.

“Fantastic,” Daenerys said.

“Yeah. I was going to say intense.”

“That too.”

“And you’re still . . .” Daenerys said, arching her hips, bringing singing awareness to where they were still joined. Jon uttered a sexy little hum, grinding his hips to hers. Daenerys bit her lip to contain a whimper. Her body clung to him, a jealous shiver that lit up all those throbbing hot spots. Her clit pulsed, greedy for more. Jon cursed. 

“Yeah. Still hard. Couldn’t tell you why. I came harder than I ever had.”

“Really?” she asked, unable to stop herself.

“Really, Dany.”

Jon closed the distance between them to kiss her. Greedy for contact, she petted his beard, rubbed his hairy calves with the soles of her feet as their tongues tangled sweetly. Astonishingly, fresh arousal began to heat. Daenerys twined her arms around him, drawing him closer. Jon broke the kiss to gasp for air, he nudged her forehead with his. Again, that sheepish smile.

“As fucking awesome as this feels, I need to ditch the condom.” Daenerys nodded, clutched at his shoulders, already mourning the loss of him.

Jon gripped the condom and pulled out with a low hiss. Daenerys admired his naked buttocks as he slipped into the bathroom. She slumped back onto the bed, dragging the covers up over her body. The bed was the room’s one extravagance: thick dark-stained bedposts, a downy mattress and soft sheets. She basked in the luxury.

“What am I going to do?” she whispered.

Without Jon’s strong presence to ward them away, anxious thoughts crowded in. The video file, the harpies, Vis, Daario. Some good news was that the thought of her cheating ex didn’t even sting. Daenerys sat up, raking her fingers through her tangled hair. The humid scent of sex rose up in a soft cloud. A part of her wanted to hide in the shelter of Jon’s fierce embrace until the sun burned out.

Jon reappeared, gloriously naked, his cock jutting thick out in front of him. His expression was somewhere between sheepishness and appreciation as his gaze wandered over her.

“You sure you’re ok?” he asked, raking his fingers through his hair. A hint of a frown gathered between his eyebrows.

“I’m great. Thanks to you,” she said. Daenerys rolled toward him as if pulled by gravity.

Jon set one knee on the mattress, looking pensive. She dreaded the words he would say, that he regretted the mind-blowing sex, that they should focus on the task at hand, blah, blah, blah.

“Dany . . .”

Daenerys gave into the yammering hunger and bent to lick his cock. Whatever words he had were lost in a choked gasp. Oh _yes_. There was a faint rubbery aftertaste from the condom, but as she lapped the fat bulk of his cockhead, more salty fluid leaked on her tongue. Yum. She gripped him, drawing him deeper, petting the tracery of veins. Jon panted and cursed above her, his hips rocking toward her. Mm, the heat and glide, slick with spit. She took as much of him as she could. His girth and length stretched her jaw. Jon’s hands cupped her head, trembling as he stroked her hair. The raw, wild look in his eyes made whetted the hunger sharper, deeper. Daenerys sought the weight of his balls, petted the springy mat of his pubic hair.

“Fuck, Dany. That’s so good.” The roughness in his voice went straight to her core.

Daenerys kneaded her clit with her free hand, moaning around his cock at growing tension, the delicious, bottomless pleasure. A feedback loop of desire. Gods! The pleasure sharpened, her vision whited out and—her orgasm struck her like a blow as she drooled around the hot, fat weight of his cock. The sound Jon uttered was barely human, face twisted in a snarl.

Jon peeled her off, muscling her beneath him on the bed. Bouncing on the mattress, Daenerys spread her legs, eager for that breathless moment before he entered her. He draped her legs over his shoulders, one hand braced on the bed. With his free hand, he guided his cock to her entrance. Slow, teasing. Mm, hot, naked flesh. A pause, an expectant look watching anxiously for her reaction.

“Ok? You want it?” he asked. Daenerys wiggled, but the angle left her flailing and deliciously helpless beneath his dark, hungry eyes and tight grip.  

“Yes,” she breathed, her voice hoarse. Jon kept up that light, teasing stroking, just barely nudging inside, interspersed with glancing strokes against her clit. Dany panted and squirmed for more, feeling hot-faced and empty. So achingly empty. 

“Say it,” he said. The command was silken in that deep, rich voice. Though phrased as a command, there was a note of pleading behind it. Breath whistled between her gritted teeth. Pinned beneath his weight and strength.

“I . . . I want you.”

Jon’s smile was fierce. A nudge and swivel of his hips. Daenerys whimpered and clenched around the glancing pressure of his cock.  

“You want what? Let me hear those filthy words on your pretty mouth,” he pressed. Mm, the hot, vital energy pouring off his sweat-sheened body. The angles of his face, rugged and pretty, brooding and pouty at once. Daenerys licked her lips, a movement he followed with intense interest.

“I want your . . . cock inside me. I want you to . . . to fuck me full of your come.” Jon’s warm, chocolate brown eyes flew wide in surprised pleasure. Such beautiful eyes, pupils pools of black.

“Oh gods, Dany!” Jon said, bending to seize her mouth in a fierce kiss. Jon cradled her head to deepen the kiss. Folded in half, Daenerys shoved her fingers into his hair, clutching him close. Sucking on his warm, nimble tongue, searching for more of that elusive Jon-taste. His muffled noise buzzed in her mouth. Oh yes, so good. The heat and magic of his touch melted her mind. A sharp icicle jab reminded her in that same creepy sing-song: _Not for long, not for longgg . ._ . The world outside crouched, ready to pounce.

“Stop,” Jon breathed, petting her face, “Wherever you’re going in your head, stop. Stay here with me.”

A rain of hot, sweet kisses washed over her face: her nose, her eyelids, her lips. Daenerys whimpered, clinging to him as he rocked against her. The blunt head of his cock ground into her clit. Pleasure wiped her mind blank and white, the edges a pink soft-focus shimmer.

Jon shifted back upright, hands braced on either side of her. A surge forward, his thick club of flesh sliding in with torturous slowness. Mm, yesyesyes, sliding deeper, _deeper_ , so hot, his cock throbbing at the mouth of her womb . . . Her pulse was a pounding throb in her ears, the edges of her vision pulsating red. Pleasure climbed and twisted into a clenching, desperate shiver. Inner muscle hugged him. The closeness, naked heat. All that delicious contact.  Stretched beneath him, an offering.  

The withdrawal and thrust back in. Again and again. Oh _yessss_ . . . Fuck, her toes curled. The sunlight made his white sweat-damp skin glisten, blue highlights glinting in his mussed black curls. The broad, smooth planes of his body, black chest hair curled around flat, coin-sized nipples. He was so beautiful.

“Fuck, Dany, you have the sweetest pussy,” Jon gasped. Daenerys gulped in air. Thrashing, gasping, and _coming_ under the slow, deep strokes. Heavy, deliberate. Touching all those sweet spots inside, each thrust nudging her clit.  

“Yes! Oh I love it when you come.” Jon’s voice was like a touch, a medley of roughened consonants and aspirated vowels. Sex and sin.

Each climax primed her for more. It was a different echelon, drawn from deep inside, from secret places beneath the bedrock. Jon guided her legs from his shoulders to wrap around his hips. Daenerys whimpered, relishing the weight of him, the sweet press of contact. Lost in his eyes. Knowing him and known herself. They heaved, thrashed together. She arched her back to meet each swiveling stroke, hands cupping the taut flexing weight of his buttocks. Jon’s mouth hung slack, lips ripe and sweet. Tension gathered deep inside, shining and inevitable. They detonated together, tangled up in each other.

Sometime later, Jon’s softened cock slipped free with a sticky trickle of fluid. He lifted his head. Blinking at her with dark, dreamy eyes, wearing the same dazed look as she. A lazy, stupid smile stretched her face. Gods, she’d never felt like this. Every ounce of tension ironed out, all her problems miles away.

“I’m sorry,” he said at last. Daenerys frowned, gathering her scattered wits.

“For what?” she asked. Jon’s mouth twisted in a sheepish look. The ripple of anxiety ebbed away. Whatever he had to say, it was embarrassment, not regret that urged him.

“For coming inside you. We didn’t talk about that.” Daenerys’ answering shrug was a twitch of shoulder. Under normal circumstances, having unprotected sex with a perfect near-stranger would have sent her spiraling into a panic attack. Amazing how threats on her life had reframed her capacity for equanimity. And it was _Jon_. He was so good and kind.

“It felt wonderful. Neither of us have anything. I have an implant. Where’s the problem?”

“I haven’t had sex without a rubber since . . . since . . .” he said, half-startled by the admission. Daenerys tugged his hair gently in reproof.

“Word to the wise: talking about previous lovers whilst in bed with your current lover is considered bad form. As is apologizing after sex,” Daenerys said. Jon laughed.

“Sorry,” he said. That set both of them off into snorting fits. Flying high on sex endorphins and laughter. As they tapered off, Jon bent to press a chaste kiss to her lips.

“While I try to pry my foot out of my mouth, you shower first. I’ll order us some food. Any preferences?”

“Food!” Daenerys said dreamily, “I’d love to try that Pentoshi place with the noodles.” Jon’s sexy grin made her heart stutter.

“Spicy?” he asked with an arched brow.

“The spicier the better. I love dragon peppers,” she said.

“Coming right up!” Jon said.

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Dany get to know each other

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smut

Chapter 9

 

When she left it would ruin him. Watching her deftly curl spiced noodles around her chopstick to tuck a neat bite in her mouth, Jon noticed the shift. An utter paradigm shift, reframing his worldview. Now sleeping in his bed he would remember what it felt like to fuck her. Now in his shower he would remember pinning her against the tile wall so he could get another taste of her pussy amid swirling steam and slippery soap suds. Now on his couch he would remember eating takeout in their sweats, talking about family and music and food and all those meandering getting-to-know-you questions.

“Your mom sounds like she was ah, passionate,” Jon said. Divorcing the prime minister during his bid for reelection, especially one with Aerys Targaryen’s wealth and temper took some serious mettle.

“Hell on wheels, as most would say,” Dany said, wiping a spot of red pepper sauce on her chin with a paper napkin. Admiration and fondness lit up her face in a soft glow. _Gods_. She nudged him gently with her knee, radiating compassion.

“What about your mom?” she asked. Jon heaved a sigh.

“Ok, I’ll say it quick. My dad met my mom when he was already married. He was only with her for one night, then whoops, here I came nine months later. My mom got sick when I was about six. Pulmonary fibrosis. She was dying. She asks my dad to take me in. So when she died, I went to live with my dad and stepmother and their kids in Winterfell.”

Between the words were mornings huddled by the electric space heater when Mom had to pick between buying her meds and paying for the heat, the lonely kirkyard where she was buried, nights snuffling into his pillow missing his mother in a strange place.

Dany’s eyes seemed to change in the light. Violet and sapphire and indigo. Now they were a dark and mysterious blue of the ocean. Jon broke the magnetic pull of her gaze to study the whorls in the warm cherry wood of his tea table. His cheeks stung with shame. The product of adultery, a stain on his father’s pristine image.

When she spoke, her voice was soft.

“I’m sorry, Jon. I went through a lot when Mother was dying. I get that. It’s awful. I wish I had words to help with rest of it.”

A hot knot was stuck in his throat. Jon choked it down, shrugging. Shit, even after all these years, the grief, the shame lurked there, ready to ambush him. She did get it. He mused it was nice having someone really understand.

“It turned out ok. My step-siblings are the best. I had a good relationship with my dad before he passed. I’m ok.” He felt like a jerk soaking up her comfort after all she’d been through. She was an orphan too. Her mom lost to cancer and her dad had met the wrong end of a mugging. The ultimate irony for a former prime minister whose platform was ‘tough on crime.’ Maybe that was why she was such a champion for the downtrodden. Pain had shaped her, like facets on a diamond.

Daenerys set aside their empty takeout boxes, leaning back against Ghost’s furry bulk on the couch. The mutt sniffed at her chopsticks before she nudged him away. Even her sweats were chic: a long sleeved, loose necked shirt in rusty purple and sleek grey pants that hugged her curves. In a graceful, easy gesture she took his hand, braiding their fingers together. The touch was an anchor, and gluttonously he drank in her warmth and comfort.   

“I’m glad. I wish I had that,” she said, flicking her braid over his shoulder with a careless toss.  

Emotions now under better control, Jon studied her. He wished he was an artist, able to capture how the light illuminated the symmetry of her face, the way the light burnished her skin. His fingers itched to unspool her braid and comb through that silky bounty.

“You and your brother . . .” Jon let the sentence hang. Daenerys took a long pull from her beer. The bottle didn’t look right in her hand. A martini glass would be better, or brandy snifter maybe.

“Viserys is a lot like our father. Detached, driven. Not affectionate. But he cares, in his own way.” Thinking of Arya and Bran and Robb and little Rickon, Jon felt a pang. Dany deserved affection. Given lavishly and often. Jon stroked the inner edge of her finger with his thumb.

“My step-sister Sansa and I never got on. She took after her mother, who hated me. Can’t really blame her. I hated me too. I was walking, talking proof that Ned Stark had been unfaithful.”

“Jon, that’s not y--” Daenerys broke off mid-sentence, then blinked at him, startled.

“Did you say Stark?”

Jon shoved his fingers through his hair. It hadn’t exactly been a lie, not telling her, but after everything, he wanted to be close to her.  

“Yeah. Cat’s out of the bag. I’m Ned Stark’s son.” Daenerys absorbed it with a measured nod.

“Ned Stark, the millionaire land baron?”

“The same one. I kept my mom’s name. She didn’t have any family. It felt like I was keeping her close.”

The words made him itch. Jon jumped to his feet, busying himself with tossing the takeout boxes and pouring a fresh mug of tea for her, sprinkled with cinnamon. Dany’s hand on his forearm stilled him. Jon heaved a sigh, bracing his hands on the kitchen counter. Lemony sunlight fell in a soft halo around her. He wanted to see her in every light, morning, noon, evening, beneath the stars. Tiptoeing in bare feet around his apartment, chewing her nails as she was lost in thought. Snuggled together in the rain and snow. Walking hand in hand under autumn’s crisp air. Stretched on Blackwater Beach in the summer’s heat. It was terrifying, glorious thought. He held onto it, cradling it like a baby bird in his hands.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked. Jon glanced at her sidelong and shrugged.

“Through a lot of years and a _lot_ of therapy, I’ve come to terms with being my father’s mistake. Still, when people find out, they treat me differently.”

“I know what you mean. That’s why I left a pseudonym with Shae. I still feel like an ass for saying so, though,” she said with a wry smile. Jon snorted.

“I know! It’s not like we’re whining about wealth. Anonymity is just easier.”

The moment stretched on, warm and sweet. There was still that pull deep in his gut, his chest.  Sexual tension shimmered, a pleasant awareness sensitizing his skin. Just as good was knowing her mind, her heart.

“I grew up amongst privilege, but it never felt like it was mine. Whatever my dad left me is stuck with my stepmom. She was executor of his will. But it’s ok, I like it better that way. I earn my own way.” Daenerys eyebrows bunched in that forked blond lightning bolt.

“Your stepmom is keeping your inheritance from you? I can help with that. I just need to serve papers to--”

Jon stopped her with a kiss. He tasted pepper sauce on her mouth and her own underlying sweetness. The answering squeak softened to a moan, her arms twining around his neck. Damn. He was such a sucker for her. His heart melted into a puddle at the thought of Daenerys Targaryen, superhero, pinning her sights on righting any wrongs in his world. When he broke away, they were both flushed and panting. His cock thickened in interest. Multiple explosive, world-ending orgasms within the last two hours and it was still raring to go. Couldn’t take the hint.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said, “I don’t mind.” Daenerys touched her forehead to his. Gods, her _smile_.

“I’m not sure how to take you shutting me up all the time.”

His belly quivered in a sudden nauseous rush. Damned First Men instincts muscling her around . . . Jon gulped.

“I’m sorry. It’s just that when—when you were saying those things, I thought--”

Daenerys chuckled, nuzzling his nose with hers. Jon relaxed into the delicate scrape of her fingernails on his scalp. Mm, it sent a cool shiver trickling down his back.

“Relax, Jon. I’m teasing you.” A big, stupid smile stretched his face.

“In my defense, Counsellor, in a fair fight you could tie me in knots.”

“So you have to fight dirty?” she purred, kitten-sharp nails sliding down the back of his neck. Jon nudged her back, lifting her smoothly to sit on the countertop. Her legs twined around his hips, drawing him in.

“Yeah, I guess that’s a good way to put it,” he said huskily.

Inching his hand up under the hem of her shirt. Warm naked flesh of her belly and breasts, nipples furled. No bra. The jut of her nipples through the shirt had been driving him mad for the past hour. She fed him a choked gasp as he rolled one nipple between his thumb and forefinger. So perfect. Gods, it was cruel. Daenerys’ lips raining hot, soft kisses along his jaw. Mm, the bloom of her hot breath as she panted against the side of his neck. He grunted at the prick of her teeth on his earlobe.

“Jon. Bed. _Now_.”

Jon scooped her up, reveling in her startled squeak, arms and legs tightening around him. A whole body hug. Daenerys peppered his face with kisses. It was perhaps a dozen steps from the kitchen to the bedroom, but he staggered as Dany did something sinful with her tongue to the shell of his ear. . . Jon pressed her against the wall, capturing her mouth in a half-rough kiss. Tugging down the wide neckline of her shirt to bite at the curve of her shoulder. A seam whined in protest. Daenerys whimpered and wiggled against the heavy weight of his cock, already tipped up toward her. Dull pleasure pulsed, glittering like distant lightning.  

Staggering into the bedroom, Jon kicked the door shut behind them. Dany squirmed out his grip, yanking her shirt over her head. Jon shucked off his own, slavering at the sight of her. Gilded in light. He wanted to lick up her sweat and nuzzle the fine patterns of her body hair. Daenerys hands attacked his clothes, trembling a little as she shoved down his sweatpants and underwear. Jon stepped out, evening the score by tugging down hers. Gobbling up the sight of her cream stretch lace panties and the sexy shimmy as she took them off.

“Wait, wait. Slow down, baby,” Jon said, stilling her caressing hands on his chest. Her eyes, the dusky violet of a twilight sky, looked up at him, wide and frantic. What was it she said? _Fizzling_?  

“Jon, just--” she whispered, choked. Her hands shook. A flash of irrational anger swept through him. Dany, white-hot love goddess that she was, what had that rat-bastard _said_ to her?

“Was The Asshole your first boyfriend?” The words just fell out. _Way to kill the mood, Snow_. It brought her up short. Daenerys licked her lips, eyes shadowed.

“Jon, please. Let’s just--” she said.

Jon sat on the edge of the bed, coaxing her to sit on his lap with soft kisses. Might as well clear the air.

“Don’t worry. This isn’t going anywhere. He can’t take the hint to cool off. Tell me,” Jon said, tucking his erection between them. Dany perched on his lap, prim and skittish. He wrapped his arms around her, a light, steadying clasp. Dusted her shoulder and the back of her neck with warm, wet kisses. Slow, sweeping, soothing. Tension rang through her, like a struck tuning fork. Daenerys exhaled a breath through her nose, giving him a sidelong sardonic look.

“I’ve been in the public eye my whole life. Men always how told me how pretty I was, how _mature_.” The words settled in his belly like a block of cement. Yep, that was enough to kill his erection. Funny, that.

“Fuck, Dany. You weren’t--” Dany offered him a limpid glance through her lashes. She kissed him, warm and lingering. His poor confused cock twitched in interest.

“No, nothing like that. I just learned I needed to . . . protect myself.”

Jon pressed his forehead to her shoulder, breathing in the smell of her hair. A tug on the elastic had the braid unraveling. Mm, glossy and silken and warm, tickling his skin. Hot emotion bubbled up from deep inside. A fierce, elemental desire to protect her. He sucked in air to breathe it down. It pulled, deep down in his chest, his gut. _Keep her here. Keep her safe._

“And The Asshole?”

Dany snickered, combing her hair behind her ear. “ _Daario._ Daario was my first.”

“First boyfriend?” “First everything,” she said, avoiding his gaze, chewing on her lower lip.

Jon blinked, taken aback. She had said sex and commitment were difficult for her to give, but he’d never thought that . . .

The same desire that whispered to keep her also howled, wishing _he’d_ been her first. What kind of caveman bullshit was that? The revelation reframed her choice to jump in bed with him. His throat closed, touched by the trust in the gesture.

“Uh, wow,” Jon said inanely.

“It wasn’t like I _enjoyed_ being a virgin at twenty-four. I was just so godsdamned busy and exhausted,” she said, kiss-bruised lips pressed thin. Dany wiggled out of his grip, fumbling on the floor for her pants.

“Hey, wait,” Jon said, jumping up and catching her wrist, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to embarrass you. Everyone’s a virgin at some point. There’s no stigma.” Daenerys snorted derisively.

“Easy for you to say--”

“My first was my girlfriend in high school. I was eighteen. Ygritte Archer. We were together for two years before she dumped me for some guy at university. I was a mopey wreck for months. Moreso than usual.” There it was, warts and all. Daenerys gave a reluctant chuckle, succumbing to his gentle tug. She tucked into his embrace, her head under his chin.

The press of naked skin was heady. The graze of her nipples, the play of her hands tracing his back. The heat of arousal simmered in his gut. Just like that, he was hard again. His cock thickened, eager for more of Daenerys Targaryen. Jon pressed his lips hard to her forehead, struggling to rein in this well of feeling. 

“I’m sorry. I’m just trying not to fuck this up. I don’t want to hurt you, or scare you. I’m trying to wrap my head around why you seem nervous. You’re a fucking goddess.”

Daenerys snorted again, twisting away from him.

“Stop exaggerating. Flattery doesn’t become you,” she said. Jon lunged, trapping her against the door, caged between his arms. Panic made his heartbeat race and cold sweat slick his skin. _Don’t fuck this up, Jon!_

“Dany, wait. Please,” he whispered.

Dany stood, all but quivering with trapped energy. A thoroughbred poised at the starting gate.

“I always freeze up. Or I can’t get out of my head enough to enjoy it.” _My poor baby_. Jon gently nuzzled the thick wavy hair behind her ear. She smelled so good. A sweet womanly perfume of shampoo and lotion. Jon wormed an arm around her waist, tugging her against him. Slow, gentle. Like she was glass. His cock throbbed against the small of her back. A smear of fluid from his cock gleamed on the small of her back. He tried not to rub against her, just to feel the glide of silky skin.

“I noticed you tense up before. You went somewhere dark in your head.”

“You pulled me out of it. I’ve never felt so . . . safe.” Jon’s throat closed. The words touched the warm glow in his chest. At once he swam through tenderness for her and equally bottomless rage. The Asshole was a selfish prick in bed, with a young virginal Dany. A shy, nervous virgin, for godssakes! It made him want to rip the fucker’s arms off.

“I’m sorry. The ex is a touchy subject, I get it. I think he’s a fucking idiot, if that makes you feel better,” he said with some heat. Daenerys exhaled a breath in a strangled half-laugh.

“It does, strangely,” she said. Jon smirked into her hair.

Parting the veil of her hair, Jon lipped at the side of her neck. Her little gasps were heady. Jon traced one hand down the line of her shoulder and arm, barely there. He guided her to brace one arm on the door alongside his, a subtle arch in her back pressing her flush against him. A grazing touch tweaked her nipples. 

“You’re so fucking gorgeous, Dany,” Jon said, his voice guttural.

Jon fought the surge of his own arousal, his cock achingly hard. He cupped her breast, relishing the tender heft of it, the soft skin. Jon breathed kisses along her jawline, a slow drag of lips. Dany’s breath came in quick little gasps. His heartbeat was a loud thump in his head, like bass in a club. Some secret inner sense stirred, wakening inside him. With the wakening came bottomless hunger. He smoothed his hand down her belly to cup her mound. Dany uttered a sharp, helpless sound, arching into his touch. A stroking finger opened her, gliding through silky (molten) wetness. _Fuck._

“There’s nothing wrong with you, baby,” he purred in her ear, “Look at this plump pink clit. So eager for pleasure.” A circling stroke made her gasp and strain toward him. _Mmm_ , yeah. Dany panted and whined, beyond words. An impressive feat given her sharp, busy mind. So surprised by pleasure. Jon wanted to make it his personal gods-given directive to give her pleasure. Every day. As often as physically possible. Her hand latched around his wrist, fingernails digging. Jon took her hand, kissed the palm, then trapped her hand beneath his on her mound.

“Show me what you like,” he whispered in a thick voice.

Dany peered up at him, the violet of her eyes nearly swallowed by the black. Tiny, tentative, liquid movements beneath his hand. Gods, she was so fucking sexy. Jon draped his other arm around her waist to help her balance, his cock leaking. He watched her fingers, slack-jawed and rapt. Circular kneading, faster and _faster_ as she strained on her tiptoes. She gave a half-choked cry as she came, sagging into his grip. Jon panted into her hair, drinking in the smell of her.

“Yessss. You’re so beautiful when you let go,” he growled.

Daenerys twisted in his grip.

“Come here,” she said, lunging into a ravenous kiss. Jon moaned around the thrust of her tongue, nearly howling when her hand found his cock, fingers slick with her own pleasure. _Breathe. Breathe it down, idiot!_ His fists balled against her back, fingernails biting deep into his palms as he fought the tide of his orgasm. Sweat popped on his brow. She broke the kiss and nudged him back on the rumpled bed. The musky scent of their mingled pleasure rose from the linens.

Jon growled as she straddled his lap. Jon cupped her hips, not in demand, but regular, soul-deep pleading. He searched her face. There was none of the frantic energy in her face or posture, just fierce, intent. A warrior goddess on the battlefield. He kinda liked the idea of being her prize. Daenerys wriggled on his lap, each pass lubing him up. A whine left his lips and Jon held his heavy cock up to her in offering. Each sobbing breath a prayer to the goddess. His luminous goddess of silver and pearl and amethyst. Meant to be worshipped. The torturous slide down was so good Jon forgot to breathe. Scalding. Naked. So fucking good. Dany hissed, kitten-sharp nails pricking his chest.

They found their rhythm, slow and deep. Jon arched, seeking the angle to rub her clit. Dany whimpered, rapt eyes watching his face. The jiggle of her breasts, the snug silky clasp of her pussy, the grazing tickle of her wild hair as she threw her head back. His balls ached. Screaming sensory overload. Jon closed his eyes, fighting the urge to come. That secret inner sense felt the tension draw tighter, heard the edge of desperation in her breathy little moans.   

“Jon?” Daenerys’ husky voice would have woken him from the dead. He opened his eyes, blinking away white spots.

It was her eyes that finished him. Smoky with pleasure, shining and open. Gorgeous. He detonated, bracing his heels on the bed to push his come deeper into her. The thought filled him with a primal satisfaction. Daenerys rode him through it, a deep, thudding rhythm until he felt her pussy flutter around him. White-hot pleasure seared him, blindingly intense. It swung higher towards pain, but Jon relished it. Damn the limitations of his body. If he had his way, he’d spend the rest of his life fucking her.

He pulled out as she slumped on his chest. The cool air was an assault. Jon arranged her pleasure-slack limbs beneath him, forging back in with a muscular push. With her, sex was a sacrament. Dany arched up toward him, mewling at the fresh invasion.

“Gods, _Jon_ ,” she whispered, legs folded wide, arms twined around his neck. Jon drank down the taste of his name on her mouth, sucking on the plump fullness of her lower lip.

It became savage, sweeping him along in the tide. Each deep, swiveling stroke kneaded his pelvis against her clit. Their grunting and snarling made a rough duet. Her teeth nipped hard at the muscle joining neck and shoulder. Sweat slicked their skin. Fingernails carved stinging lines down his back. Yes, that sweet tension gathered in her, expression shuttered. And—oh yeah, there it was!—delicious milking pulses of her pussy as she wailed. Heat pooled thick and liquid in his balls. His fingers cupped her head, snarled in her hair.

“Oh gods, I’m going to come again!” he gasped, thrusting once, twice more and---lighting blasted through him. Sometime later, Jon eased out, rolling onto his side and gathering her to him. Anxiety was a nervous prickle in his belly. Was it too rough? Jon breathed a kiss on her forehead, tasting the tang of sweat.

“Dany . . .” her answering kiss was a swift smack.

“Shhh, before you ask, it was incredible,” she said with a sleepy, sated smile. Jon’s head thumped back on the pillow with a smile, basking in the afterglow. Wholly content.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dany and Jon go their separate ways

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Keep your arms and legs within the car at all times during the ride ;)
> 
> For my Virtue fans, I'm working on the next chapter. Hopefully that will be ready next week.

Chapter 10

 

The tick of the clock made her itch. A call from Barry arranged the time for their rendezvous. 8:00 PM. The sun had set, and the SUV could drive unimpeded by rush hour traffic. Daenerys gnawed at the ragged edge of her thumbnail, tasting a tinny smear of blood. The thought of leaving Jon’s comfortable apartment made her faintly nauseous. She was in too deep now, offering him her heart and body in bloody chunks.

Ghost seemed to sense her unease, shoving his fluffy head under her hand in a plea for comfort. Daenerys petted him as Jon paced and fretted. After their second shower—no sexy escapades this time—his hair lay dense and curly against his scalp. He itched his chin, the hair of his beard making a plush scratchy sound. He looked mouthwatering in the simple navy-blue shirt and dark jeans. The smile he offered was shy. So he felt the strain in the air too, mingled awkwardness and dread. Jon opened his mouth to say something then thought better of it. The chirp of his intercom startled them both.

“Who is it?” Jon said.

“Barry Selmy.” His deep voice sounded tinny, faraway.

“We’ll be right down.”

Daenerys cast a savoring glance at the apartment, and Jon himself. Gods, _Jon_. His generous, guarded heart, his dry sense of humor, the heated memory of his touch. Daenerys stood paralyzed, clutching the strap of the duffel holding her belongings, consolidated to one bag. Jon’s expression hardened, and he came to some inner decision. Closing the distance between them in three strides, Jon wrapped his arms around her and kissed her. Daenerys uttered a soft, hungry sound against his lips, the hot glow inside her surging toward him. Passion boiled, red and sweet. Her arms twined around his neck, fingers shoved into the damp cool weight of his hair. The hungry flick of his tongue against the roof of her mouth made her joints melt. A deep, ravenous kiss, a passionate give and take. _Mmm_. When he eased off, Jon was breathing heavily.

“Maybe once they catch the fuckers who are after you, you could give me a call,” he said. Daenerys swallowed the knot that rose in her throat, snatching another kiss on his lips. She would savor the taste of his mouth, his sweetness and humor.

“I wish you were coming with me,” Daenerys blurted. It was the truth, embarrassment be damned.

“Me too,” Jon said, tugging her braid playfully.

“I know you don’t have a phone. Here’s the number of the burner, just in case.” Daenerys moved out of his embrace to fumble in her bag for a notepad and pen. Jon accepted the sticky note with grin.

“Short-sighted idiot that I am, I didn’t buy the protection plan,” he said in a weak joke. Daenerys chuckled.

“I’ll reimburse you. It was ruined helping me, after all.” A hint of a scowl drew Jon’s eyebrows together. 

“Let me take you on a date instead. Do you like rugby?”

Daenerys fought a giddy wave of dizziness. Jon wanted to date her? Her hopeful heart imagined shared meals, walking hand in hand down the street, at ease and in love . . . She slammed a gate shut inside her heart against those beautiful, dangerous words. Of course she wasn’t in love with Jon. They’d known each other for what, a couple days?

“I—I’ve never been,” she said.

“The King’s Landing Dragons are playing the River district Rush in a couple weeks.”

“Let’s call it a date,” she said. Was she mad or was there a brand of rosy color on Jon’s cheeks?

“Great,” he said hoarsely. Silence stretched on, in pleasant discomfort. 

“I’d better get down there. Barry will get antsy,” she said.

“You ok with the pistol?” Jon asked.

“Got it,” Daenerys said, patting her bag. Jon had relinquished Barry’s borrowed weapon so as not to brandish it outside.

“Ghost and I will walk you down,” Jon said, summoning the dog in question with a pat on his leg. Ghost clicked to Jon side, carrying his leash in his mouth. Daenerys giggled, scratching Ghost affectionately behind the ears.

“He’s a good boy!” she cooed. Ghost’s fluffy tail thumped her hip.

“Yes, he is,” Jon said with a half-smile, half-grimace, attaching the leash.

Daenerys had to stop herself from grabbing his hand as they waited for the elevator. The lift was thankfully empty, but her mouth went dry at the potent memory. Just there Jon had pinned her to the wall and made her come with a few kisses and thrusts of his hips. _Gods_. Her thoughts skittered from one erotic memory to another _. A sweet-sharp prickle of his beard on her breasts. The fat throbbing heat of his cock in her mouth. The almost pained sound he made when he came_ —She squeezed her thighs together around the warm buzzy glow. The air between them sang with heated awareness. He was remembering it too. His dark eyes were slitted, glittering. His hand white-knuckled on Ghost’s lead. Daenerys closed her eyes, clenching her teeth around begging words. _Take me, hide me._ Jon was safe harbor, warmth and pleasure, joy and protection.

After what felt like a small eternity, the elevator lurched to a stop, chiming as the doors slid open. Barry loomed on the stoop beyond the door’s pane of frosted glass, no less intimidating in plain clothes. The plan was for Barry to escort her to the SUV where Rakharo waited. Quick and quiet. Jon captured her hand between both of his, Ghost’s lead dangling around his wrist.

“Take care of yourself, Dany,” he said, blazing sincerity. A tender kiss to the back of her hand, warm and gentle. Daenerys squeezed his hand, coughing through froggy throat.

“Thank you for everything, Jon.” His answering smile was pained as he yanked open the door. Her security head’s sharp blue eyes raked over her and Jon in turn. Seemingly satisfied, he shouldered her bag.

“Hello, Miss. Did you rest well?” Barry asked.

“Yes, thank you. Jon was a very gracious host,” Daenerys said, offering a sad little wave as the door shut behind her. Jon and Ghost stood backlit by golden light, his expression obscured by the glass.

“This way,” Barry said, guiding her with a gentle grip on her elbow south, down Visenya’s Hill.

Overhead, a smattering of stars was visible through shreds of bruised purple cloud. The sun was the barest burnt orange lining on the horizon, the air already freshening. Heat radiated from the pavement beneath her flats, a phantom caress as they passed buildings. Each step away from Jon’s building and she felt colder, brittle. The icy Dragon Queen. Jon had slipped past her defenses without even meaning to. Opened up rooms inside her mind that had been locked for years. There was pain as well as pleasure in bringing light and life to those closed off spaces. She found she needed that cold, that ice to anchor her.

“You’ve heard from Vis?” Daenerys said. Her spine stiffened. The ice she hefted like a shield in the boardroom and courtroom was a comforting weight. Her hands stopped shaking. Breathing was a bit easier. Calm. Focus. Barry heard the steel in her tone, and, solider he was, straightened to meet it.

“Yes, Miss. He landed a couple hours ago. Kove and Jory are with him.” Daenerys nodded, grateful there was one less worry to fret over.

“And Dragon?” “Mr. Lannister sent a dossier of the particulars. It’s in the SUV.” “Good. How far?”

“Another block. The idea was to be inconspicuous.”

Daenerys peeked over her shoulder, finding a mostly deserted street. The few pedestrians were in pairs, chatting on their phones or walking their dogs. Minding their own business. Her eye was drawn up Visenya’s Hill to where the red police tape fluttered. A shudder raced through her thinking of that brute out there somewhere, waiting . . . _watching_.

“I understand,” she said.

After a beat, she asked: “How much did he get?” Barry was jolted from his laser-sharp focus.

“Miss?” he asked with a frown creasing his seamed face.

“Daario. How much money did he get for his torrid story?” Barry’s mouth twisted into a moue of disgust.

“The initial report was a hundred thousand crowns.”

“That _bastard_ ,” Daenerys hissed under her breath.

Though the white-hot, mind-meltingly intimate sex with Jon went a long way to soothing her hurt, the wound to her pride remained, and festered. As Daario’s fiancée and business partner, she had access to his financial reports and loan pool. Stormcrow was a successful firm with branches in almost every industry, much like Dragon—the company wouldn’t have caught Viserys’ discerning eye unless they were—but with any advancing business, there were weak points.

The sizable contract with the Tyroshi government, for instance. Daario promised to offer their consulting services to streamline their tax code. The best tax lawyers in the world worked for Dragon. Daenerys oversaw that department herself. If she were to suddenly headhunt to remaining tax attorneys from Stormcrow . . . She made a mental note to send an email to Tyrion with her idea.

The SUV was in sight, an older model in battered, subdued green, sandwiched between a sedan and panel truck. Daenerys mentally applauded. A sleek spotless black vehicle always stood out to her, another cliché.

“Your brother commandeered your car, Miss. But this is quite sturdy. Top of the line engine and reinforced chassis. Not bulletproof, unfortunately. I couldn’t find one on such short notice--” Daenerys laid a calming hand on Barry’s arm.

“It’s excellent for our purposes, thank you.”

Rakharo unfolded from the passenger side, his hair tied back in a ponytail. Much like Barry, even in plainclothes, he still looked lethal, alert.

“Miss,” he said with a warm smile, opening the back door for her.

“Hello, my friend,” she said, returning the smile with equal warmth as she slid into back seat. The door closed with a reassuring thump. The car smelled of old leather and the faintest sweet tang of Lysene cigarettes. Daenerys drew in a deep breath, trying to absorb the lingering nicotine. Rakharo circled around to drive, Barry buckled into the passenger seat, swinging the bag into the back floorboard.

“Did you find a suitable safe house?” she asked, chewing on her thumbnail. The streetlights clicked on, creating bubbles of bluish light, glittering on the asphalt. Rakharo pulled smoothly out of the parking spot and accelerated toward a stoplight down the steep grade of Visenya’s Hill. Daenerys tried to calm her jittery, twitchy energy. Between missing Jon and worrying about what lay ahead, the ice-shield wobbled in her grip.    

“Yes. In Harrenton,” Barry said. Daenerys’ fists balled.

“Harrenton? That’s two and a half hours by train! How am I to get any work done?” the sharpness in her tone made their shoulders hunch.

“The threat on your life takes precedence, m’lady,” Rakharo said.

“I’ll not be cowed by these monsters. They win if I do.”

“A noble sentiment. But my job is to keep you alive so you can go on spiting them,” was Barry’s flat rejoinder. After a moment stewing, Daenerys nodded.

“I suppose I could work remotely for a time.” Rakharo caught her eye in the rearview mirror and winked.

“Thank you, Miss,” Barry said, with laughter in his voice. Daenerys grinned, looking out the window to watch the tangle of shops and buildings slip by amid the hypnotic strobing of streetlights.

“How are Missy and Shae?”

“They’re good. Scared, understandably so, but good. Bodyguards are assigned to both of them. Missy’s husband Gray is ex-special forces. I think he might have taken offense at our services,” Rakharo said. _Maybe I should offer him a job as a security consultant, then._

“I’ll talk to them, when this is over.” ‘This’ would hopefully be resolved soon, she couldn’t miss work for very long without climbing the walls.

The turn signal clicked as Rakharo maneuvered into the turn lane and turned down a broader thoroughfare, Loom Street. A heavenly scent of spice and oil filtered through the car as they passed Rowan’s Noodles. Daenerys bumped her forehead against the window, warding off the ache in her chest for Jon. Rakharo and Barry talked softly just beyond the edges of her hearing.

A sudden screech of the brakes yanked her from her daydreaming.

“What is this idiot doing?” Rakharo snapped, laying on the horn.

Daenerys peered through the windshield just as a pickup truck swerved through two lanes to cut them off. Daenerys braced herself on the chairback in from of her, narrowly preventing smashing her nose. Her heartbeat pounded thick in her ears. The driver waved an apologetic hand out the window, the hazard lights blinking. A hail of honked horns greeted the driver as he stepped out, hunkering down by his front tire. Relief loosened the knots in her muscles.

“Just go around, Rakharo. It looks like he has a flat tire,” Daenerys said. Rakharo muttered curses in a Dothraki dialect, turning on the blinker. It took several minutes for the surrounding traffic to let him pass. He heaved the wheel to miss the truck bumper. The canvas lashed over the truck bed fluttered. What--? The SUV’s engine roared as Rakharo gave it gas. A hideous screech from the rear, a glitter of sparks. Their vehicle stalled.

“They’ve slashed the rear tire!” Barry said, drawing his weapon. Icy sweat sprung up on her palms. Her lips felt numb. The driver shrugged off his overcoat, revealing a machine gun. Pale with a Tyroshi’s green-dyed beard, he grinned.

“Fuck! Miss, get down!” Rakharo said, blindly grabbing a handful of her shirt and yanking her down. Daenerys huddled on the floorboard. A scream was lodged in her throat. Barry stuck his arm out of the window. The rapport of Barry’s gun was earsplitting, Daenerys shoved her fingers in her ringing ears. Through the windshield, the machine gun guy jerked strangely, then fell to his knees clutching the bloom of red in his gut. Men burst from beneath the truck’s bed, armed.

“Hold on!” Rakharo shouted, flooring it.

The crippled SUV screeched, fishtailing as it surged forward. Daenerys choked on tire smoke and the tang of hot metal. The guy with the machine gun shrieked as the SUV rolled over him. A jarring wet thud. And silence. Rakharo gunned it, the SUV roaring down the road. Gunfire filled the air with smoke and noise. The back window shattered in an explosion of glass. She flung her arms over her head, pelted by cold shrapnel—too terrified to scream. Barry lunged into the backseat, covering her with his body.

“Are you hurt, Miss?” his voice warbled and distorted in her ears. Daenerys gulped, trying to summon enough saliva to speak.

“N—No. I don’t think so,” she said. There was a steely calm to Barry’s face that reassured her. The iron nerves of a seasoned soldier.

“Stay down!” Barry said. Her bag was a painful lump under her diaphragm. Barry’s spare gun! Terror mingled with the lurching car made her clumsy. Barry’s elbow struck her between the shoulder blades as the SUV lurched to one side. She wheezed out a soft cry of pain. Numb fingers fumbled for the zipper.

“Keep it steady, Rider!” Barry shouted.

“We’ve only got two good tires left, Selmy. Maybe squeeze off another couple rounds at these bastards?” Rakharo snapped back. Another spate of gunfire. White smoke poured from the engine. The SUV skidded to a stop.

“Wheels are toast,” Rakharo said grim and calm. Ruffling through her belongings, Daenerys’ hand closed around the grip of the gun, textured and heavy in her hand.

Sitting ducks. Fish in a barrel. Any other easy prey metaphor would do. Daenerys sent up a fervent prayer to whatever god would listen.

_Let us get out of this._  

 

~

 

Ghost stood poised, muscles quivering. Jon stood frozen in the poky ankle-high weeds of the abandoned lot, straining to hear. Cold needles skittered over his skin. It was a car backfiring. That was it. Jon stood rooted in place, in agony. The second rash rang through him, like the staccato crackle of fireworks. _Gunfire_. His stomach lurched in a sudden rush of nausea.

“Dany,” he whispered.

One of his neighbors walking toward their building looked down the hill with a puzzled frown.

“Pyp, call the Watch!” Jon said, winding Ghost’s lead around his hand.

“What’s going on, Snow?”

“I have an idea,” he said under his breath.

“Come, Ghost!”

Jon pelted off down the street. Fear froze his guts, his chest. His skin was slick with clammy sweat. Ghost kept pace as he ran. _Dany, Dany, Dany!_ His mouth was dry as dust, sucking in great gulps of air. Gods, this was madness, running toward the sound of gunfire with nothing but his dog and his bare hands! That yammering voice held no power. It was _Dany_ down there for gods’ sake! Jon tucked his chin and poured on more speed. Ghost’s bulk helped clear a path from the few pedestrians.  

“Move!” Jon bellowed, shoving past a huddled cluster of passerby.

“Oi! It’s a warzone down there, mate!” a man yelled after him.

A warzone? Gods, not just one bad guy then. Bullets filling the air both ways, and Dany stuck in the middle. Jon cursed the limits of his body and ran faster. Hot pain burned in his side, his heartbeat thundering. The steep downgrade helped him. Together he and Ghost careened down around the corner onto Loom Street. He pulled up, panting. It _did_ look like a warzone. Two cars in a tangle, the SUV on fire. A haze of reeking smoke wafted up. Innocent commuters swerved in a confused jumble. In the distance, there was the faint blare of sirens. Too far away to help. Too lost in crowd control to get to her.

A knot of bad guys hammered away at the crippled SUV with submachine guns. A flash of movement on the far side. The long-haired guy, Rakharo, stood to return fire. _Bam! Bam bam!_ Rakharo jerked, sinking to the ground with a cry. _Fuck_! Where was the fucking back up? Where was the fucking missile-proof tank? Ghost whined.  

“I’m sorry buddy. I shouldn’t have dragged you into this. Ghost, _stay_ ,” he said, petting his head and tying the lead to a street sign well away from the madness.

Jon crept around the corner, edging down the sidewalk behind the protection of parked cars. _Think, think_! He was alone, unarmed. _Bam! Bam!_ Like an idiot, he’d left his knife in his apartment. Even that was better than his empty hands. Barry’s loaned spare was in Dany’s bag. _Gods, she must be so scared. What if she hurt, bleeding . . ._ Jon bit down on those thoughts and the terror of them, swallowing it down. _Bam! Bam! Bam!_

He didn’t need to take on all of them, just one. Get his weapon, give Rakharo and Barry a fighting chance. There were four of them left crouched in the truck bed, alternating time of fire. Three already dead. _Bam bam!_ The _noise_! The ringing was sharp-edged in his skull, shredding.

Jon leaned against the grimy tire of a parked truck. Between the bumpers, he glimpsed a bad guy some distance up the street, very much dead. Make that four dead bad guys. Creamed by the SUV by the looks of it. His head looked like a crushed red melon. And in the sticky red-black pool, was a machine gun. Jon dragged in a steadying breath. He had to be quick. The rapport of Barry’s weapon was thicker, louder. A larger caliber. This was his chance. The fuckers would be huddling. Barry Selmy had been a sharpshooter in his illustrious career too. _Bam_! _Go, Jon!_

Jon darted out, skidded to a stop next to Dead Bad Guy. Open, too open. No cover. Hurry. _Hurry_! He unhooked the gun strap and yanked the weapon free, the grip gummy with blood. The meaty reek was incredible. Choking back bile, Jon tamped the magazine and crawled to the cover of a parked sedan. Settled the gun tight against his shoulder. Took aim on the big Summer Islander shouting curses as he reloaded in the truck. He took a steadying breath, seeking calm. A squeeze on the trigger . . . _nothing_. Jon fumbled with the bolt action. Fuck! Apparently running it over with a car had broken some internal mechanism. At least it didn’t backfire in his hands.

“Shit, shit!” Jon said.

A screech of tires behind him. Jon counted one, two, three more bad guys pour out of a squalid sedan. Rough voices raised in argument. Jon leaned back against the car, trying the slow his sawing breathing. He could take three. Sure. No problem.

“--the fuck did this happen? How hard can it be to cap two bodyguards?” The sputter of gunfire drowned out the first voice’s answer.

“—shit. Boss won’t like this.”

“We get paid for results. Clean it up! Guns or no guns.” Not armed? Why—Jon’s gut gave a queasy lurch. The video. They didn’t just want to murder Dany, they wanted to _rape_ and _torture_ her first. This team planned to swoop in after her bodyguards were dead and . . . and-- _Not on my fucking watch, assholes!_ Rage was hot and clawing in his gut.

Jon gulped down one more breath. Backlit by the streetlights, Bad Guy Number One stood a bit behind the other two. Jon burst into motion, lunging from behind the car, lifting the butt of the gun like a club—the stock struck him just above the ear with a hideous crunch. Bad Guy One crumpled like a discarded puppet. 

“What the fu—” Bad Guy Number Two said, turning on his heel to find Jon’s fist. Bad Guy Number Three struck out, knocked the gun from Jon’s grip. A knife of dark steel glinted in Three’s hand. Thin, wiry with dark, empty eyes set in a pale face. Jon blocked his forearm with his own, pain rattled up his arm. Jon followed through with a hard punch to the belly. Air wheezed out of him. From the corner of his eye, he saw a flutter of movement. Bad Guy Two, big ginger fucker, staggering to his feet. 

Three’s knife slashed, opening a bright line of pain across his chest. Through his torn shirt, blood trickled warm. Jon caught the wrist as the blade stabbed down, his arms quivering with effort. Jon kicked the inside of Three’s knee. Bad Guy Three fell to his knees with a scream. Jon finished him with a hard cross on the chin.

“Fuck,” Jon muttered, shaking his stinging hand.

Bad Guy Number Two lifted the gun, his grin changing to a dumb look of shock when it didn’t fire. Jon smirked. Two charged, Jon ducked back, feeding Bad Guy a hard right hand for his trouble. A quick glance for the fallen knife. Dimly, he realized how quiet it was. _Fuck, Dany_ —

Jon caught a blow on the jaw. He staggered dizzily, brain ringing and spitting blood. He fell to one knee. Instinct raised his arms to block, but not before eating another hard hit, a grimy thumb digging into his knife wound. Red bled across his vision. His scream was harsh with pain. Half-numb fingers scrabbled on the asphalt, finding the knife’s textured grip. A quick slash out opened Bad Guy Two’s arm from elbow to wrist. He bellowed like a wounded bear and tackled Jon flat on the ground. The knife skittered from his hand. A knee in the gut winded him. Jon wheezed and struggled, muscling for control.

“I’ll choke the life out of you!” Bad Guy bellowed. Thick fingers clawed at Jon’s throat. Gods, he was strong! Jon choked, gasping from precious oxygen. _The knife!_  He chopped at the elbow holding him, legs flailing for leverage on the two-hundred-and-fifty-pound mountain of fat and muscle . . . the grip loosened enough for him to suck in another breath. The knife grip danced a centimeter from Jon’s fingertips. The edges of his vision wavered, blackened. Almost . . . _There_!

It happened fast.

One minute Bad Guy was throttling him, then Jon thrust the knife—so easily!—into his throat. Red-black blood surged warm on Jon’s hands. Jon scrabbled from beneath him, sucking in sweet cool air. Jon watched the horror dawn on him as he choked on his own blood. The freckles on his face stood out in sharp relief. Blood reddened his teeth, dribbled onto his chin in sticky, spittley threads. Then he lay still, in a widening pool of blood. Jon sat hard on the ground some distance away, drenched in red up to the elbow. Already the heat had ebbed away, leaving a cool, gummy coating. Cold sweat popped on his skin.

“Oh gods,” Jon said, kneading his sore throat. He choked down bile. It took him two tries to find his feet, swaying with a dizziness. Black spots danced at the corners of his eyes. Dany. Dany. Dany.

The warzone was eerily silent. The truck bed was empty, the SUV quietly burning.       

“Dany? Dany!” Jon said in a hoarse whisper. Damn, his throat was raw and hoarse. A scuffle of movement near the SUV. Jon staggered after it, whispering her name.

“ _Jon_?” her quavering, incredulous voice was such a blessed, welcome sound that his eyes fogged up. Jon lunged around the SUV, finding her stanching the bleeding wound in Rakharo’s rib cage with one hand. Their eyes met and everything in him surged toward her.

“Dany,” he said. Daenerys fell toward him.

“What are you _doing_ here? Y—You’re hurt!” she said, trembling hands brushing the flapping edge of his shirt. In the other hand, she held Barry’s gun. A dead bad guy slumped against the body of the SUV—Dany’s handiwork, if Jon could hazard a guess.

Weariness and pain fell away when her arms closed around him. Jon pressed a kiss to her forehead, tasting the salt of her sweat. Heat and life.

“I’m fine,” he rasped. And he would be.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Dany flee King's Landing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all, I finally had some time to thrash out this chapter. Thanks for reading, and possibly smut in the next chapter!

Chapter 11

 

The wound didn’t look good. Rakharo was bleeding, a steady trickle of bright red. The warm brown skin of his face was ashen, lips parted to suck in noisy gulps of air. The bullet had probably punctured his lung. Selmy was unconscious, wounded, though Jon could see the steady rise and fall of his chest. Still kicking.

“You have to go. You have to go now,” Rakharo said. Jon could hear the wail of sirens. The paramedics would be there within minutes. Thank the gods.

“No, we’ll wait until the paramedics get here, the Watch--” Dany said, pressing the wadded-up fabric of her torn sleeve to the wound. Soaked almost black with Rakharo’s blood. Even smeared with soot and blood, shaking like a leaf, she was still a spitfire. Jon hovered behind her, anxious and twitchy that she was out of touching distance.

“No, Miss,” Rakharo tried to shift position, winced, then lapsed back against the SUV bumper, “T—They found us on without cell phones, without a paper trail. Miles from your apartment. If they can do that, they might have contacts with first responders. You have to go. _Now_.” Jon’s shoulders bunched, unnerved by the accuracy of the words. A fresh jolt of adrenaline chased away the looming exhaustion. Stress hormones pumping through him, sharpening his senses.

“But you and Barry--” Dany said, her brow forked.

“I’ll keep the old dog alive until the cavalry comes,” Rakharo said with a travesty of a smile. Daenerys scowled, but nodded. She braced Rakharo’s hand against the bleeding wound, ignoring his groan.

“Fine. I’ll go. Use firm pressure. If you think you’re going to pass out, take deep breaths in through your nose.”

“Yes, Miss,” Rakharo said, looking up at her with black eyes blazing with ferocity, “Cash only, find a fresh burner if you can.”

“Of course,” Daenerys said. A yank pulled her bag from the SUV with a petulant tinkle of glass.

“Leave it! They might have smuggled a tracker on your belongings,” Rakharo wheezed. Daenerys huffed out a breath, her shaking hands the only indication that she wasn’t quite as calm as she seemed.  

“Ok. I’ll go then,” she said. The warble in her voice hurt. A blazing thought pierced the fog: she said ‘I’ not ‘we.’ Jon grasped her arm, loosening his grip when she bit back a cry of pain.

“You’re not going alone.” She gave him an anguished look, tears standing in her eyes.

“Jon, you’ve already suffered so much because of me, I couldn’t--” Jon yanked her close to him, swamped by a strong storm surge of emotion. Anger or fear, love or desperation, he wasn’t sure.

“Get this through your head: I’m not going anywhere,” he rasped. He bit down on more dangerous words like ‘I’m all in’ or ‘You’re mine.’ It wouldn’t do to throw his heart at her feet. He wasn’t sure if she’d treasure it or inadvertently stomp on it.

“Let’s go,” she said her voice strong and steady. Jon folded Daenerys’ hand in his own. Beneath the grimy slick of blood, her steady warmth comforted him. The siren’s shriek grew louder, coming down the road from the direction of the Street of Sisters.

“This way,” Jon said, tugging her toward Visenya’s Hill, where Ghost circled on his lead.

“You brought Ghost _here_?” Dany asked incredulously. Jon’s back went up.

“I heard gunshots and came running,” Jon snapped, untying the lead with a sharp yank. Even that cut too close to an admission, so Jon kept his gaze on what his hands were doing. He felt the weight of her eyes, and rolled his shoulders. Gods, he was a damned fool. Chasing after her, wanting to be her hero. It would get him killed. The smart thing would be to back away slowly. It was passing thought that just barely punctured the thick grey fog. Ghost nosed Dany gently, whining at the smell of blood. Dany crooned, petting the soft fur behind his pointed ears. Who was he kidding? He was in way too deep for that.  

“Come on,” Jon said, ushering both Ghost and Dany through a narrow winding alley. Jon crouched beside a dripping faucet and washed the blood off him. A twist of his shirt and the flap dangled between his shoulder blades. There. Semi-presentable.

Dodging grimy puddles and reeking dumpsters, they wove through backstreets until they found a small tenement house.

“Where are we?” Daenerys asked.

“A friend’s. I need a place for Ghost,” Jon said, shooing her to stand out of sight. Daenerys Targaryen stood out in any circumstance, but looking like a warzone survivor stuck in a person’s mind. Jon rapped on the door. Faintly he heard the stomp of her boots.

“Who is it?” she asked through the door.

“Jeyne, it’s Jon. Open up!” he said. A twist of the deadbolt, a rattle of door-chain and Jeyne yanked the door open. Her utility scrubs were in King’s Landing Veterinary Hospital’s colors of plain black, with high, work-scuffed boots. Her long dark hair tied in a bouncy ponytail, her hazel eyes wide in her lovely round face.

“Jon? Is everything all right? Come in!” she said, with an ushering gesture. Jon’s smile was stiff and uncomfortable. Weariness sapped his strength along with his patience.

“I can’t stay, Jeyne. Something came up suddenly, and I have to leave town. Can Ghost stay with you a couple days?” Her brow furrowed, but she automatically reached for Ghost’s lead. Jon knelt and scrubbed Ghost’s furry sides. His tail wagged uncertainly. Poor pup, he was confused.

“Anything, Jon. Are you sure everything is--”

“I’ll explain later,” Jon interrupted, glancing over his shoulder, “I owe you. Thank you. I’ll call you later. I’ll pay you back, I promise.”

“O—Ok. Call me later, then,” Jeyne said with a hopeful smile. _Shit_. Not _that_ kind of call. Jon finished his goodbyes with Ghost and stepped off the stoop. That was a problem for another day.

Daenerys was uncharacteristically quiet as they took a meandering path to the train station. Jon shoved away the thought, focused. One: Getting Out of the Fucking City Safely, Two: Smashing Any Bad Guys in their Path, Three: Calling for Backup. Thankfully, Number Two proved unnecessary as Dany slipped into a seedy thrift store to buy Jon a new shirt. Meeting him around the corner, she tore open the plastic sack. A black button-down for him—wafting a strange mix of must and mothballs—and a baggy drab green army coat and cricket cap for herself. Jon shrugged on the shirt over his torn one, wincing as it stretched the scabbing cut on his chest.

“How do I look?” she asked with wide-eyed glance. Jon gave her a once-over, some of the tension bleeding away. His grimace softened. The coat swallowed her, the cuffs hanging past her fingertips. Her distinctive hair was shoved under a King’s Landing Crowns hat and flyaway strands fell in disordered curls. His chest felt tight.  

“Beautiful.” A smile bloomed on her lips, so gorgeous his heart twisted inside him. The light died in her eyes as the smile fell.

“I don’t look like a fugitive businesswoman running from a multinational crime syndicate?” she asked.

“Nope, just another poor slob,” Jon joked weakly. The smile he earned was cooler, but no less beautiful. Jon cleared his throat.

“Come on, let’s go.”

The warm moment carried him through the tedium and nerve-shredding anxiety of joining the monitored masses of King’s Landing’s busier thoroughfares to hail a cab. Waiting under the orange glare of a streetlight, Dany made an abortive gesture, the army coat’s sleeve pooling around her wrist. Her nervous habit of chewing on her fingernails. They were still rimmed black with Rakharo’s blood, despite their hasty wash. Jon’s teeth ground together.

“Where to, gents?” the cabbie asked in sharp intonation of an Iron Islander.

“Stone Heights, corner of Queen Street and South 127th,” Jon said, as Dany slid into the seat. He felt the curious pass of her gaze, but he didn’t want the cabbie to overhear his plans. Bad guys bursting out of nowhere made him twitchy.

“In this traffic, that’ll take over an hour,” he whined.

“You’ll get a good fare then,” Jon said, slamming the door shut.

And that was that. One of his buddies Pyp, who worked with Tormund lived in Stone Heights, a semi-respectable neighborhood outside the city walls. The ancient walls of where the medieval King’s Landing stood was preserved, the reddish stone and crenellations lit up with floodlights. Past the wall sprawled suburbs and businesses, neighborhoods and office buildings, absorbing the old town of Rosby into an extension of King’s Landing. Jon drummed his fingers on his jumping knee, jittery energy shredding his insides. Creeping in metal box, just like before, with only him left to protect her . . . Dany stilled his knee with a touch of her hand.

“Breathe,” she whispered. Jon offered a weak smile, taking a deep breath in through his nose. Jon covered her hand with his. So warm, the bones of her hand so delicate in his grip.

“Thank you by the way,” she said, her gaze turned toward the window. “For what?” Jon asked.

“For saving my life. Again.” _I couldn’t stand it if something happened to you._ But he didn’t say that.

“Don’t mention it.”

 

~

 

Gods, Ramsay loved his work. The two men on security detail offered a challenge. Both were smart and fierce. So refreshing. The second in particular, was strong as a bull and had nearly broken his arm. Ramsay repaid him, though. The .22 was his favorite weapon. It wouldn’t kill, not unless at a lucky angle or point-blank range. No, instead the small bullet would ping around like a pinball inside, doing all sorts of delightful damage without killing the victim. It made things much more interesting. The silencer took care of the pesky side effects of ‘witnesses.’

All that was left now was his favorite part: interrogation. And such a pretty victim too. Not Westerosi, with those dark, exotic eyes. She huddled in her closet, clutching a butcher knife. Mm, she has some fire, then. Good! He liked that. A part of him wished there was time and space enough to take her home, play with his dogs. Such vicious things.

“Hello, Shae. I have some questions for you about this . . . Jon Snow.”   

 

~

 

The hours trickled away. Like a Monday afternoon, where time seemed to move at a snail’s pace. Daenerys glanced at the car clock: past midnight. Her thoughts drifted, nodding against Jon’s warm strong shoulder. The cab smelled of stale cigarette smoke and old takeout. A wilted chicken salad had been her dinner, washed down with weak iced tea. Jon’s arm tugged her close, a warm clasp at her hip. Thankfully the cabbie had the radio switched to a classical station. The second attempt on her life would be splashed all over the news. She sent up a brief prayer for Barry and Rakharo’s well-being. _Gods, I hope no one else was hurt._ At least Vis was safe, as was Dragon in Tyrion’s hands.

The two of them switched cabs at Stone Heights, and again in Rosby. Jon paid the third cabbie with a brusque gesture, herding her out toward a cheap motel. The promise of quiet and rest, a shower and a bed—no matter how dubious—was heavenly. The train station was within sight.

“We’ll board a train north in the morning. Let me make a quick call,” Jon said, pointing to an ancient pay phone languishing outside the motel office door. Daenerys trailed after him, bleary-eyed, a headache pounding behind her eyes. Every inch of her ached and she stretched subtly to ease it.

“Robb, thank the gods. I know, I know, my phone broke. Listen—” Robb, Jon’s stepbrother. The handsome face she’d seen on so many magazine covers. Wealthy, goodhearted, dating Margaery Tyrell, the gorgeous actress. The press ate up their story like candy.

Daenerys’ attention drifted. The night was warm and soft, with the rhythmic screech of trains in the background. Sweat dewed on the back of her neck, under the thick canvas coat. Crickets chirped. A niggling sense of déjà vu prickled. She dismissed it, shivering at being out in the open. What eyes watched from those distant windows? Knives and guns in the dark. Daenerys checked the impulse to lean into Jon. She’d done enough clinging to him already. Gods, seeing him bloodied and frantic on Loom Street would be forever burned into her memory.

“Thank you. I’ll pay you back, I promise. Give Marg my love,” Jon said, before hanging the phone on its cradle with an inward tinkle of change. Jon found a tired smile.

“I’m sorry about the rough accommodations. Dad had an old place on Silver Lake. The train will take us north tomorrow.” Daenerys gave the motel a scrutinizing glance.

“Looks like my first apartment,” she said. _That_ was it. The sound of trains and a maze of broken concrete reminded her of the squalid apartment she shared with Vis while working her way through college. Always she came home feeling the same way she felt now: exhausted, lonely and heartsick.

Their room was on the third floor, interior hall. Yellowed wallpaper peeled off the walls, the dark green carpet worn thin and grubby. Jon locked the door behind them and set Barry’s spare gun on the nightstand. The microfiber blanket on the sagging mattress was patterned with gold roses. Jon clicked on the bedside lamp, washing one side of his face in the garish white light. He sat at the head of the bed, his expression closed and grim. No doubt ruing the day he’d ever laid eyes on her. He rubbed his eyes.

“Take your turn in the shower. I’ll stand watch,” Jon said, with a jerk of his chin. Daenerys was too tired and wrung out to argue.

The bathroom echoed the motel’s general sense of neglect: hard water stains on the shower glass, mildew growing between the chips in the countertop, an age-fogged mirror. The woman who stared back at her in that murky glass had her features, but the eyes were smudged and haunted. A woman hunted, running, running, running. How long before they caught up to her? What about Jon? He’d already risked his life for her. Twice. How long before he decided it was enough? Or worse, they hurt him?

Daenerys twisted the tap on full blast. With a throaty gurgle, rust-tinged water burst from the showerhead before running clear. There were no good answers, and flogging her tired brain wasn’t helping. One simple thing she could do was get clean. Daenerys peeled off the musty coat, the bloodstained shirt, the torn jeans, and stepped under the pounding spray. One thing in the motel’s favor: the water was blisteringly hot. The beat of the water and swirling steam were soothing, even the tepid water pooling from the slow drain didn’t bother her. A soak for her achy feet.

Three little vials of cheap shampoo and conditioner worked the worst of the tangles out of her hair, along with ground flecks of broken glass. A washcloth and bar soap scrubbed away all memory of the day. Soot and blood, fear and grief. Only the thought of Jon not having enough hot water kept her from spending the whole night under the hot deluge.

Daenerys wrenched the tap off and wrung out her hair. Sound echoed strangely in the shower stall, water a hollow drip. Daenerys scowled at the heap of her discarded clothes as she toweled off. No way. She would rather sleep naked than climb into those clothes again. Through her tiredness, a tendril of heat flickered to life. If Jon could comfort her, make her forget the madness of the day with the patented heat and skill of his loving . . . then they would both feel better. Predictably, her busy brain listed alphabetically how and why he would reject her, and she chickened out. Instead, Daenerys swathed herself in a towel, gathered her clothes in a wadded knot, and emerged in a cloud of sweet-scented steam. Jon looked up, the same fierce scowl plastered in place.

“I’ll take my turn,” he said in a voice as hard as his expression. Something inside her quailed a little. That too tickled a memory in her brain, of nights Vis staggered home drunk from the pub down the street. Daenerys sank down to sit on the bed as the door clicked shut behind him. It would be better, _kinder_ if she slipped out the door and out of his life. The hiss of the shower bled through the door. She would have to hurry.  


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon confronts Dany.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smut for you, my lovelies.

Chapter 12

 

Jon let the hot water pound on the top of his head, the roar filling his ears, the heat and pressure so powerful it almost hurt. It was a relief to scrub sweat-stiffened hair, scour every inch of his body. Soap burned in the thin cut across his chest, a sharp sting like a papercut. Minutes trickled by as Jon let the hot water rinse him, loosening aching muscles. _Thunk_. Panic zinged through him. The door. Gods, _Dany_!

Jon lunged out of the shower, pausing only to yank his jeans up. Barry’s gun in hand, he kicked open the door, slipping on wet bare feet. The stairwell door creaked shut and Jon shouldered his way through. A flash of blond hair two flights down.

“Dany? Dany, what the _fuck_?” Jon shouted. His voice bounced off the walls, harsh and panicked. Daenerys’ sobs echoed back at him, shredding in his ears. She craned her head up to look at him. Violet eyes dark and agonized.

“I’m sorry, Jon! I can’t do this to you! I have to go!” she said. Jon tucked the gun into the waistband of his jeans. He leapt down to the next landing, the shock rattling in pins up the balls of his feet. Two more leaps and he was on the same landing as Dany. Wet tendrils of hair dripped in his eyes, he shoved it angrily out of the way. Panting, dripping water, his jeans sagging low on his hips, Jon glared down at her.

“What’s this bullshit? You were just going to run out on me? Just like that?” he hissed, all but quivering with energy. Rage and panic made a dangerous cocktail. She looked so small and scared in her stained clothes, her hair hanging in a wavy, half-dried curtain. Fierce protectiveness unfurled in his gut. Jon clenched his fists so hard his fingernails bit bloody parentheses into his palms. Daenerys dropped her gaze to the paint-chipped concrete floor.

“It’s . . . it’s not fair to you,” she whispered. Jon exhaled a breath through his nostrils, casting a glance around the cramped, ill-lit stairwell.

“Come on. Let’s hash this out in private, at least,” Jon said, with a coaxing gesture.

He herded her in front of him up the stairs back into their room. He kicked the door shut and locked it, tossing the gun on the bedside table. His movements were short and brisk; it was the only way he could keep his hands from shaking. They squared off like opponents in a boxing ring. Keeping his eyes locked with hers, Jon shoved his jeans down and stepped out. Naked, chilled by the drying bathwater. His dick, predictably, mistook the hot energy coursing through him for something sexual and stood hard and ready. Daenerys’ eyes widened.

“W—What are you--”

“Lose the scared rabbit look,” Jon sneered, “These are my only jeans. When you bolted I didn’t have time to dry off.” Rosy color bloomed on her cheeks. Gods, she was so beautiful. His dumb cock twitched in interest. Jon folded his arms over his chest, wincing at the stretch on his cut.

“Now explain what the hell _that_ was,” he said tightly, stabbing a thumb toward the door. Daenerys shrank against the door of the bathroom.

“This whole thing: the threats, the attacks, none of this is your problem—it’s _mine_ ,” she said, looking miserable. Jon shrugged.

“So?”

“ _So_? So you shouldn’t have to risk your life dealing with my shit!” Daenerys said, each word climbing in volume until she was nearly screaming. Jon hushed her. _There’s a fine line between altruism and martyrdom._

“An asshole threatens to rape and kill you. I take exception to this. It’s that simple. I’m a big boy, I make my own decisions. And you trying to make them for me is honestly a bit of a cop out.”

“A _cop out_? You son of a--” Daenerys spat. Jon closed the distance between them, looming a breath away.

“You don’t want to deal with your feelings, so you just cut me loose. Put me out of my misery. Is that it?” Jon asked quietly.

“I don’t want to see you hurt. I don’t want you to hate me,” she whispered. Tears welled and overflowed from those beautiful eyes. Through the haze of his anger, Jon’s heart gave a wrenching twist in his chest, though he didn’t let an iota of it show. She already had him wrapped around her little finger. His thumb wiped away her tears. On impulse he licked up the taste of salt.

“I can’t hate you, baby. I just want to keep you safe. Hold you and kiss yo--” Daenerys strained up to kiss him, drinking in the words left unsaid. _Let me love you._ Jon growled low in his throat, yanking her flush with him. He squeezed the soft curves of her arse, grinding his hips to hers. Dany _melted_ into him, hands warm and needy on his bare skin. Her soft sound of surrender inflamed him, desire roaring in his ears. The kiss was fierce, she sucked at his upper lip, he muscled his tongue into her mouth, hotly possessive. Jon shoved his fingers into her hair to cup her skull. Daenerys broke the kiss to suck in air, petting his back.

“I—I thought you were angry.”

“Oh, I’m very angry. For a million reasons. I saw half a dozen guys try to murder you. I killed two who were bent on raping you. And after all that, you were just going to _leave_ me!”

Jon stepped back, though everything in him howled in denial. Another word and he might have done something awful. Something dark snarled in his gut. He wanted to hurt her for trying to leave. He wanted to pin her down and fuck her hard, leave her sore and begging for him. Jon clenched his eyes shut, focusing on deep, slow breaths. _I’m not that guy. I don’t hurt women. Especially not_ her _. Not Dany._

When he opened his eyes, Daenerys had shed her clothes. The beauty of her stole his hard-won breath, made the dark and light places both rumble and purr. The silver tumble of her hair, her beautiful face, soft pert breasts, the plump lips of her pussy . . . he felt each hard beat of his heart in his cock. 

“I won’t leave you,” she promised, solemn as an oath. Jon licked his lips, tasting her. He shook his head, trying to clear the fog.

“Let’s get something straight: if you don’t want me around, just tell me to fuck off. _Talk_ to me. Brilliant lawyer like you, it should come naturally.” Dany snorted in reluctant humor.

“--But don’t you dare run off like that again. Especially now. It could get you killed. And I would fucking _lose_ it,” Jon said, spitting out the words. Gods, he couldn’t contemplate a world without her in it. Her face softened. Dany took his clenched fist between her hands and showered it with kisses until she could nestle her cheek into his palm.

“I’m sorry,” she said. Damn it, Jon’s throat closed. The raw emotion was still there, boiling in the back of his throat, but he hadn’t lied. He couldn’t hate her. The sweet generosity of her heart was just too tempting. The blazing light and beauty of her, inside and out. He was strung out on it, craved it more than his next breath. Daenerys breathed kisses on his chin, his jaw, nipping his earlobe.

“Make love to me,” Dany whispered. Jon let out a hissing breath between his teeth.

“No,” he said. The warm open look in her face shuttered, like a light turning off. It wasn’t until it was gone that Jon noticed how much he missed that soft look. Daenerys stepped back, folding her arms protectively across her breasts.

“No?”

Jon took her hand, kissed it.

“No, baby. Every time I think about what happened today, with those fucking scumbags trying to hurt you . . . it makes me want to _kill_ something. Not to mention the gut punch of you trying to run--”

“I’m so sorry, Jon.”

“It’s ok. I just . . .” Jon raked one hand through his wet, tangled hair, “I’m just all jacked up on adrenaline. I want to slash and burn. Track down those assholes and grind them to paste. It’s not the kind of energy I want to take to bed with you.”

“I don’t mind it,” she said, her gaze skittering away from his face. Jon snorted weakly. He cupped her chin, tilting her face toward his. The garish bare bulb of the lamp made her blond hair gleam like silver wire.

“Talking, remember?”

“Everything that happened today. I want to . . . to forget. When you make love to me, I usually forget my own name, so . . .” she said with a half-wry smile. Jon tried not to preen at the words. His cock twitched, eager for her. Jon towed her closer and guided her hand to his cock. Daenerys let out a harsh little sigh of relief, pumping him knowingly. The pleasure shivered up his spine. Jon gasped, groping for words.

“Know what you’re getting into. I’m not in a gentle mood. I’m going to fuck you. Jacked up as I am, I don’t know when I’ll stop.”

“Ok,” she said with an eager nod. He wasn’t the only one strung out then.

“Good, we understand each other,” Jon said, edging her back on the bed.

Daenerys sprawled back on the bed, biting her lip. She made for a beautiful sight, all creamy white skin, sweet kiss-reddened lips, and the sweet secrets between her thighs. Her violet eyes watched him, wide-eyed. The hungry part of him purred. His to plunder. Jon palmed himself, hunger a deep pull in his gut, his balls. Jon snatched her ankle, kissed the curve of her instep. 

“Spread your legs, baby,” Jon whispered. Daenerys obeyed. Mm, yeah. Those sweet pink lips, that plump little clit . . . His mouth watered. He knelt on the thin carpet, intent on licking her into a frenzy.

“What are you doing?” she asked. Jon arched a brow, yanking her to the edge of the bed. He could smell a hint of her musk. Jon caught her eye as he kissed the crease of her inner thigh.

“What does it look like?”

“What happened to all your adrenaline? Fucking me within an inch of my life?” she demanded. Jon chuckled.

“I’ll make it good for you, just trust me. I need you wet. Dripping lube. Like when I fucked you the first time this morning.” Gods, was it really this morning? It felt like a lifetime ago.

“Jon, please . . .” Dany said. Energy shivered through her.

There was no gentling her tonight, his gorgeous thoroughbred. No, tonight he’d ride her hard, lash her with pleasure until she collapsed in satiated exhaustion. Jon pried her legs wider, fingertips dimpling the soft flesh. A probing lap opened her. Gods, he loved her pussy. He could do this for hours, relishing every quiver, drinking down every musky drop. Despite his proclamations, he started slow, building the pleasure with slow laps and glancing caresses on her clit. He lapped and lapped at her pussy, until her nether lips gleamed with spit and her own lube. Her juice was so smooth and silky, the taste musky-sweet in his mouth. Daenerys writhed in his grip, arching up for more.

“Jon!” The half-agonized cry of his name snapped the last thread of his control. Jon growled, lashing her clit with his tongue faster and _faster_. He felt it building, that glorious tension. Almost . . . With a groan, Daenerys came against his face. Fuck _yeah_ , he could _feel_ the thump of her clit against his tongue. Blood roared in his ears. No rest, no easing her through it. Instead, he opened his mouth wider, devouring her whole. He lifted her hips from the bed, leaving her flailing and off balance as thrust his tongue inside her sweet heaven.

Three quick sharp sucks on her clit had her clawing at handfuls of his hair, whimpering as another orgasm ambushed her. Jon thrust two fingers inside the snug heat of her and curled them gently. Busily suckling on her clit, he pressed with his fingers, searching for that sweet spot inside . . . Dany nearly levitated off the bed, a sharp scream torn from her as she clenched on his invading fingers. A gush of wet, of musk. _Fuck_! Jon broke off, a breath away from coming untouched. Seven fucking hells! A white-hot love goddess like Daenerys Targaryen would be the end of him one way or another.

Jon leapt to his feet and yanked her legs high and wide. His eyes met her violet, tear-blurred ones. So open, so sweet and giving. Jon’s throat closed. One slick thrust had him seated deep, scalded by the wet heat of her. Soft and ready for him. All for him. Dany’s hands reached, tugging him down to her chest. Jon’s eyes fogged up. Damn. He hid his face in the cool damp tangle of her hair.

“Dany,” he breathed, wrapping his arms around her, squeezing her close to his chest. The kiss was inevitable. Her soft, plump lips, her deft tongue tangling with his. Jon braced one knee on the bed and thrust, long and deep and slow, his mouth never leaving hers. His power plays were meaningless. Every time he took her to bed, he just laid himself open. Ripped out his beating heart and offered it to her. Wrecked by pleasure, humbled by her generosity. Every damn time.

The rickety bed squeaked and groaned loud beneath them. Jon didn’t care. That dark, hungry part of him wanted to pump her full of his come, smother her in his scent and essence until every man alive knew who she belonged to. Damn any bastard who tried to steal her away. Daenerys’ fingernails bit into his back. _Yessss mark me, claim me._ Jon snarled and rose on his hands to fuck her deeper, faster. Gods, it was so fucking _good_. That sweet grip of her pussy, her limbs twined around him, the hot suction of her mouth on his neck between grunting little cries.

“Oh gods, Jon . . . more. _More_!” she whimpered. Jon straightened until she lay beneath him, his feet square on the floor.

The first deep thrust made her cry out and collapse back on her elbows. Her hair was a silver spill on the blanket, her eyes heavy-lidded, her face flushed a sweet pink.

“You’re with me now, got it? You’re _mine_!” he snarled, fucking her hard and fast. Heat poured off him; sweat slicked their bodies. Drops from his hair pattered on her breasts, but bathwater or sweat, he wasn’t sure. The smell of her filled his nose, saturated his skin until he knew always seek her, always crave her. The edges of his vision pulsed red. The pace stuttered. Jon fought the rising surge of pleasure, no, no, not yet . . .

“Yours, oh gods, yours, Jon!” Daenerys moaned, her pussy hugging him as she came. Jon clung to her as he spilled inside her. Hot, endless jets of come. Jon sagged, sinking down over her to kiss her. He rocked, riding out shivery aftershocks as her hands petted his jaw. When his heart wasn’t about to burst from his chest, Jon sucked in enough breath to speak: “I’m not done with you, yet. Hands and knees.”

 

~

 

Oh _gods_. The half-hoarse velvet snarl of his voice sent a fresh shiver through her. Daenerys whimpered as he pulled out. _Gods_. Jon’s body gleamed in the low light, his chest heaving. Each exhale revealed the etched grooves of muscle in his abdomen. His cock jutting out thick and stiff. Jon loomed over her, dark wolfish eyes shadowed through the tousled snarl of his curls, his expression hard and remote.

Daenerys never liked bed games. Roleplay always felt forced and awkward, like a teenager in a school play. But Jon’s fierce ravaging-barbarian routine . . . _fuck_ , if she hadn’t already bedded Jon, she wouldn’t have believed she could be this aroused. Willing life into pleasure-slack limbs, she scrambled to her hands and knees. The bed squeaked as Jon knelt behind her. She watched him over her shoulder through the veil of her hair. A sweet shiver raced through her at his thin, hard smile.

“Mmm, good. Such a sweet plump arse,” Jon said, roughly tugging her flush with him. Gods, his cock was hard and heavy against her buttocks. Daenerys whimpered, arching her back. His fingers dipped between her thighs, grazing her swollen folds and teasingly brushing her clit. Pleasure was an achy shiver.

“So wet, baby . . . and my come dripping out of you. I should leave you like that. Messy and wet and aching for me.” Daenerys squirmed, straining toward the oblique caress. Her knuckles were white on fistfuls of blanket.

“Jon, please . . .” she whimpered. Begging for what, she wasn’t sure. That wicked hand teased her clit. The pleasure made her chew on her lower lip to bite back needy words. Straining for more, teetering close to the edge . . . Jon kneaded her hip with his free hand, a gentling caress. A shifting of weight and oh gods yes, the hot length of his cock nudged at her opening. Glancing. Not _enough_! Daenerys breath came in harsh sobs, arching back as his fingers stroked and _stroked_.

“You want more, baby?” Jon whispered. Absurdly, his voice made tears prick her eyes. She was a wreck, weepy and quivering under his touch.

“Yes! Oh gods, _Jon_!”

Jon slid inside and release tore through her in sobbing spasms. The pleasure twisted and folded back on itself as he thrust. Hard and fast now, heaving and grunting. Daenerys reveled in the strength of him as he rode her. Time dilated, measured only by the wild spasms of pleasure. _Yes. Yes. Use me. Make me yours._

“Fuck, Dany! I’m gonna _come_ . . .” Jon said, slamming deep once more. Mm, she _loved_ that feeling. His half-pained cry, hot come filling her. Daenerys’ arms gave out. She fell in a sweaty, boneless heap on the bed. Weightless. Floating in a warm sea of sensation. Jon pulled out slowly, pressing a string of kisses up her back. Dimly, she realized what a sight she would have made, almost insensate on the rumpled blanket, buttocks in the air.

Jon guided her onto her back, nestling on top of her. Daenerys made a low sound of contentment, twining her limbs around him. The warm weight of him, his dense masculine smell, the sweet press of his lips on her neck, and sweet seven heavens, his cock was hard against her hip . . . oh gods, just the weight of him on top of her made her greedy for more of that hot, sexy magic.

“Dany . . . Dany, look at me,” he crooned, petting her hair. Dany obeyed. Backlit by the lamp, his face filled her vision. Those dark beautiful eyes so tender, his kiss-bruised lips gently smiling.

“Gods, you’re so beautiful. Are you ok? Not too rough?” he said, showering warm, soft kisses on her forehead, eyelids, cheeks, lips. Daenerys sought his mouth with a weak lift of her head. The kiss was sweet and soft, pleasure a sharper twinge as he plucked at her nipple with one hand. Jon trailed kissed along the side of her throat, a warm, wet lap of his tongue tasting her sweat. A whimper lodged in her throat. Daenerys canted her hips up, mutely, shamelessly begging for more  

“Oh Jon. So good. How is it this good?” she whispered hoarsely. Restless, Jon stroked her belly, cupped her breasts. His breath bloomed swift, making her nipples tighten at the alternating warm and cool.

“I don’t know. It’s something special. Just you and me. C--Can you take a little more, baby?” he asked, framing her face between his hands.

“Yes,” she whispered, dragging him down for a kiss. A subtle shift and he slid home. The slight sting of soreness was more than outweighed by pleasure. His groan vibrated against her lips. Daenerys clenched handfuls of his hair, holding his head close as he moved inside her, slow and sweet. She drank in the soft, awed look in his eyes, the glow surely reflected on her own face. When they found release, it was in a mutual burst of pleasure. _Jon_.

Sometime later, the sweat began to cool and gooseflesh stippled her skin.

 “I’ll be right back,” he said.

The loss of his warmth and weight was an assault. Dany curled into a ball on the blanket. She heard the sink run. A moment later, gentle hands helped her sit up. Daenerys nuzzled into his hands. So warm, slightly rough and so sweetly familiar. She loved his hands. She loved everything about him.

“Drink,” Jon said, offering her a glass of water. Daenerys drained it, the cool water soothing. Jon held up a wet washcloth.

“Let me clean you up.” The terrycloth felt rough and cool on the tender flesh between her thighs, mopping up sweat and their mingled juices. Jon guided her under the blankets, tugging her close.

“Sleep,” he said. Daenerys melted into the embrace with a sigh, feeling the press of his lips on her forehead as she slipped under.        

 

The smell of food woke her some time later. Daenerys surged toward wakefulness, pleasantly sore and disoriented. The speckled green wallpaper and cheap blanket grounded her. The Harpies in the city. Barry and Rakharo. The cab, the hotel. Jon. _Jon_.

Daenerys sat up to find Jon setting a pizza box on the cheap table near the door. He made quite a lovely sight in his socks and boxers.

“Sorry I woke you. I was starved,” Jon said with a sheepish smile. Daenerys ran a hand through her rumpled hair.

“It smells delicious. Let’s eat.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Dany travel north.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy my escape from canon! I am also working on a smut fix-it fic for episode 4. Maybe that will keep me busy until after episode 5 airs!

Chapter 13

 

There was nothing like hot sausage pizza with plenty of garlic sauce and dragon peppers at four in the morning. The cheap soda was good too. Beer would have been better, but there was no way in hell he’d risk running the gauntlet while anything less than fighting-sharp. The meal was even better with a half-naked Daenerys Targaryen sitting cross-legged in bed. Pure decadence.

He watched in awe as Dany ate the peppers by the handful. The woman had a stronger stomach than Tormund. Jon leaned back against the headboard, replete. Wiping sauce from his face with a napkin, he admired her in greedy, glancing looks. Falling asleep in her arms after making love felt so . . . _right_.  ‘Making love,’ the phrase seemed trite, but there was no other word for it. Kinky power games swept to wayside in a tide of yearning. That last mutual climax felt like his soul was pouring from his body. Cartoon hearts, starlight, and fireworks, all those clichés were true.

“So what’s the plan?” she asked, combing her hair behind her ear. Mm, that sexy hint of hoarseness in her voice from moaning in pleasure. The blanket draped on her shoulders slipped, giving Jon a tantalizing glimpse of her breast. Jon was lost for a moment admiring the grace knit into her bones as she took a sip from her drink. Every movement smooth and measured, like a dancer.

_I am well and truly fucked._ It would only get worse. The lake house north was private, cozy. _Romantic_. Gods. Next, he’d be feeding her chocolate covered strawberries or offering his services as a love slave forever. A thousand rationalizations told him why it wouldn’t, couldn’t work between them. But there it was all the same, so real it hurt. Jon coughed, realizing he’d spaced out staring at her.      

“Uh, our train will take us north . . . to the Cailin Canal. From there, we board another train to Torrhen’s Square. Silver Lake is about a 30-minute drive from there.” A frown line appeared between her brows.

“And why not Winterfell? Isn’t that where you grew up?” Jon raked his fingers through his hair.

“Aye, but the goal is to find a place that the bastards wouldn’t expect. If they find out it’s me helping you, Winterfell will be the first place they look. Not to mention my brothers and sister are there.” Daenerys gave a solemn nod.

“Of course. I would never risk endangering your family,” she said. Her fingers picked restlessly at the hem of the blanket.

“I’d love to meet them, once all this is over,” she said, not meeting his eye.

Jon lost himself in imagining it. Robb and Margaery would insist on hosting them for dinner. Barbeque and beer. Sansa—if she was home from uni—would be a gracious hostess. Arya would pepper her with insightful (and probably embarrassing and invasive) questions, Bran would ogle her and dazzle her with his encyclopedic knowledge of Targaryens, Rickon would be too shy to do more than peek at her from Mrs. Stark’s leg. The image of them eating and laughing on the patio under a big northern sky was so tangible, he could almost taste it. Jon swallowed hard.

“I’d like that too.” The silence that followed was a pleasant one, broken by Daenerys’ jaw-cracking yawn.

“Let’s get some sleep,” Jon suggested.

The food dealt with, there was a degree of shyness as Daenerys curled up, the blankets folded back in invitation. Jon pressed a glancing kiss on her forehead and tucked in behind her. One arm around her, snug and possessive. A statement. Daenerys settled into his embrace with a soft sound. So sweet and trusting. Jon flicked off the lamp. Sleep hung leaden on him, but he spent some time listening to her breathe. He turned the precious gift over in his mind, puzzling at it, admiring it. Three days, maybe four in her presence and voila, here he was, in love. And it scared him shitless.

 

~

 

Jon was in a strange mood. Quieter. But not the broody, seething energy of the night before. She’d grown used to the tenor of his silences, but this one she couldn’t put her finger on. He was already up when she woke, dressed and gathering what little they had. Breakfast was cold pizza, and they donned the same filthy clothes—washed as best as cold water and cheap bar soap could manage. Daenerys puzzled as she stuffed her hair under the ball cap. Maybe talking to his family had spooked him? Making plans, setting up a future . . . that should be off-limits.

Despite her girlish crush (and it was a _crush_ , she insisted fiercely), there was no guarantee of tomorrow with them. After all she’d put him through, maybe he was trying to gently disengage. That was it. The sex got too intense. The whole godsdamned situation was too intense. Boundaries were good. The smart thing. The mature thing. Daenerys choked down the knot in her throat. Why did that thought make her so miserable?

The PA announced the departure of their train promptly at six a.m. Jon’s hand was warm against the small of her back.

“Ready?” he asked, his first words beyond ‘good morning.’ Daenerys nodded, slipping into the narrow cabin. Her stomach churned, a nervous acid roil. She chose a pair of seats midway back in the car. There were few other commuters. An older couple sipping tea, a square-jawed business type staring into his computer screen, a middle-aged woman reading a book. No goons, or potential goons, that she could see. Daenerys exhaled a breath as she sat. The Harpies weren’t all powerful. They could get away safe. The press of Jon’s gaze drew her from her thoughts. Gods, even this garish lighting and little sleep didn’t diminish how gorgeous he was. Jet black curls yanked back into submission, his dark eyes magnified by the lenses of his glasses. Daenerys managed a wan smile.

“We can relax, Dany. We bought our tickets with cash, we switched routes and drivers several times.”

Daenerys nodded.

“The farther we get from King’s Landing, the better I’ll feel,” she said. Jon took her hand and Daenerys was so grateful for the contact, she nearly melted.

“Me too. I think you’ll like the cabin. The lake is beautiful. No internet though, or fancy tea.” Daenerys snorted at his half-hearted attempt at teasing.

“I think I can rough it for a while. I’m sure we’ll find something to occupy our time,” she said, lightly stroking the inner curve of his thumb with her own. Jon gulped visibly. Whatever his silence had been about, it relaxed as the train lurched from the station. Talk flowed easily as the tangle of low concrete buildings and narrow streets abruptly gave way to rolling fields and thick forest.

“It’s been a while since I’ve been north. The last time was Bran’s nameday three months ago. I bought him some climbing gear.”

“Climbing? Like rock climbing?” Jon’s smile was quick.        

“Aye. Bran’s been climbing since he could walk. A lot of magazines wrote articles on him; he was the youngest one to climb the Wall. He had an accident some years back. One of his anchors broke, he fell some one hundred feet before the harness caught him.” Dany tightened her hand around his.

“Gods! Was he hurt?” Jon gave a grim nod.

“Broke his pelvis, three ribs and a hairline fracture of his spine. If he’d fallen even a foot farther, the doc said he could have been paralyzed.” Daenerys squeezed his hand.

“How old was he?”

“Ten.”

“I’m so sorry.” Jon raked his hand through his hair, tearing out the tie. His wild hair fell around his face.

When he spoke, his voice was quiet, off-hand: “That’s why I learned massage. He had terrible muscle spasms in his legs and back during rehab.” In the words, she heard a wealth of love and care. Daenerys swallowed the lump in her throat. A contemplative moment passed in comfortable silence.

“I found out I liked it. It’s soothing, not really like work. Except with you.” A hot flash arched through her at the words. She couldn’t bite back a startled smile.

“With me?” A hint of color crept up Jon’s neck. He glanced out the window at the blur of sun-dappled greenery flying by.

“I told you that,” he said, shoulders hunched.

“Told me what?” Daenerys stifled a giggle. She felt giddy, intensely female. Teasing him was such fun! Jon gave her a sharp look, and noticed the humor dancing in her expression. He relaxed. The curve of his lips hinted at all manner of depravity.

“During our session at The Oasis, just the feel of your hair and the way you smelled made me hard,” he whispered, his thumb tracing distracting circles on the tender skin of her wrist.

“I felt like such an ass, perving on an innocent client.”

“I wanted you too,” Daenerys whispered. Despite the armrest between them, Jon loomed close, his breath a phantom caress on her cheek. Just barely she could smell him, musky and male. She chewed on her lower lip. The look in his eyes made a shiver race through her.

“You did?”

“I was so embarrassed. You just rubbing my shoulders made me so . . .”

“What?” Jon pressed. His expression was intent, dark eyes alight with hunger. Daenerys licked her lips.

“So . . . aroused,” she said. Jon’s eyebrow arched. 

“‘Aroused?’ So clinical. Tell me how you felt.”

Daenerys cast a nervous glance around. The near-deserted car was quiet, save for the hum of the train itself. The rows around them were empty. Her heart thudded. Something as mundane as a commute was fun and sexy with Jon. The first air-soft kiss behind her ear made her shudder. Jon nuzzled her hair with his nose.  

“It’s ok, baby,” he purred in her ear, “No one can hear. Just me. You know how I love it when you say those filthy words.” His hand crept beneath the shirt draped over her lap. Daenerys bit back a whimper as he petted the inner seam of her jeans. A kiss, a few sexy words, and here she was, panting and yearning for whatever he wanted.

“Do you want to stop?” Jon said, his eyes searching her face. In answer, she kissed him. Soft, lingering. When she pulled back, Jon looked a little dazed.

“It was the first time. When—when you rubbed my back, I . . . gods, it felt so good. I was wet. Aching.” Gods, that _look_. Avid, lips parted. And his eyes, that fierce glow.

“The first time?” His fingers plucked at the button of her jeans, worming beneath her panties. Daenerys bit her lip to stifle a whimper, arching her hips to give him better access.

“Yes. Oh yes. It was even w—worse the second time. Pure erotic torture. I thought I was going crazy.” Jon’s fingers parted her folds, finding her hot and slick. He cursed softly under his breath. Daenerys measured her breathing, fingers white-knuckled on the armrests. The first soft touch on her clit worsened the hot ache.

“Is this what you wanted? You wanted me here?” a gentle, circling rhythm. Slick and secret. Gods, _yes_ that gentle circling. Both soothing the ache and making it worse. Letting the pleasure build and burn. Good. So fucking good. Daenerys squirmed in her seat.

“Jon, faster. _Please_.” His ragged breathing was warm in her ear, his fingers driving her towards sweet relief. Daenerys clenched her thighs around his hand, tense around that delicious rising tide of pleasure.

“Tell me, baby.” His accent was thick, his voice rough.

“Gods, yes. I wanted you. If you’d asked, I would have let you.” Daenerys clenched her hand over his as the pleasure burst behind her eyes. A hot, delicious wave drowning her. When the roar in her ears receded, she was slouched in her chair. Jon’s fingers lazily stroked, setting off sweet, shivery echoes.

“Fuck, Dany. That was beautiful,” Jon said, kissing her neck. Daenerys hummed.

“What about you?” she asked, glancing down. His erection strained against his jeans. Jon shrugged.

“No help for it right now. No biggie. Can I keep my hand here? I love touching you like this.” Daenerys blushed, embarrassed by how wet she was. At this rate, she’d soak through her underwear. Worth it, though.  

“It feels wonderful. Gentle, though. I’m a bit sensitive.” Jon grinned, leaning against her shoulder.

“Of course. I can’t think of a better way to pass the time.”

 

~

 

The feel of her hot and slick around his fingers kept him perpetually hard for the next two hours. And probably would until the end of time. Jon didn’t particularly care. Seeing her squirm and whimper under his touch was potently erotic. In between easy conversation and working on a crossword, Jon made her come. Watching her unravel was pure bliss, even more so when she tried so hard to keep it together.

The best part was when the snack cart rolled by, and Jon feigned sleep against her shoulder. He listened as she calmly ordered with two of his fingers deep inside her. Sexy as hell. If the bored attendant looked closer, she would have noticed the sheen of sweat on her face.

Jon sadly pulled back before their food arrived. The rich smell of her wafted from his fingers. He checked the impulse to lick them clean. He tucked into his turkey sub and chips with relish. Through lunch he imagined licking her into a frenzy while she was in a board meeting or something. _Yeah_. He liked the fantasy. He’d take care of her. Make her dinner. Fetch her dry cleaning. Make her come. Trot after her like a loyal hound, panting and wagging. Forever. Gods, he was fucked.

The train to Cailin Canal flew by. With a certain smug male satisfaction, he noticed Daenerys’ slightly wobbly gait as they disembarked. Jon dragged in a breath of fresh air through his nose. Hundreds of years ago, the Neck had all been swampland. If he remembered right, it was another Daenerys who had ordered to bridge the Neck to connect the Sunset and Narrow Seas. The locks had been widened and modernized since.

“I’ve never been this far north,” Daenerys said, casually tucking her hand into his. Jon managed to knock his big idiotic grin down a few notches.

“We have about half an hour until our next train. Let’s go see the locks,” Jon said.

The air was rich with the smell of water and fried food. Crowds were thin on a weekday, mostly confined to a few couples and the occasional tourist. Jon led Dany to the railing along the lock, peering down to the waterway below. Layers of green slime coated the metal walls, and in the grey-blue water below they passed the time pointing out seals and turtles and the occasional duck. Dany towed him by their entwined hands to the educational plaques, her face alight with curiosity.   

“How does it work? I see the doors, but I wonder how many ships can go through at a time? The Sunset Sea is several degrees warmer than the Narrow Sea. Does that effect the wildlife?” Daenerys asked. Jon checked the impulse to drag her close for a kiss. Smiling in the sunshine, all worry or stress hundreds of miles away, she was the most radiant thing he’d ever seen. It took a minute to restart his short-circuiting brain.

“I—I’m not sure. They have guided tours, but not on weekdays,” Jon said. He glanced at the clock.

“Damn, we have to rush if we want to make our train!”    

Jon would have happily resumed the sexy teasing on the next leg of their journey, but the train leaving Cailin Canal for Torrhen Square was packed. Commuters and families alike. He and Daenerys wedged their way into a middle and aisle seat two rows from the head in the back of the car. Despite that, soon after the train lurched from the station, Daenerys nestled against his shoulder.

“Is this ok? I need to shut my eyes for a minute,” she asked, those limpid violet eyes trained on him.

“Of course. Make yourself comfortable,” Jon said, wadding the spare shirt as a makeshift pillow. Even awkwardly draped across the armrest, she was soon fast asleep. Jon’s heart thudded in his chest. Jon breathed in the smell of cheap soap in her hair along with her own underlying sweetness. Restless fingers toyed with flyaway strands of her hair. He loved having her close.

One of the attendants flicked the aisle TV on. The channels flicked by, an informercial, a vacation channel detailing the wonders of the Summer Isles, an old rugby match, the news . . . Jon’s ears perked up at the mention of Daenerys’ name. Even this far north, the main news stream came in from the capital.

“Government officials and local law enforcement are searching for suspects in the shootout on Loom Street late yesterday evening. This attack is thought to be linked to an attempt on the life of King’s Landing CEO Daenerys Targaryen. The motives are yet unclear, and Miss Targaryen hasn’t been seen since the attack. If you have any information on possible suspects, call the number on your screen.” Jon squeezed her closer, as if to shield her. So strange to hear some of the worst moments of her life pared down to bloodless facts.

The report droned on. Barry and Rakharo were still in intensive care. Daenerys’ brother Viserys appeared on screen. They were similar in coloring and build, but there was a hawkishness in the nose and narrow violet eyes that Jon distrusted.

“Turn the game back on!” a couple passengers grumbled. The attendant obliged before Jon could hear Viserys’ statement.

Jon leaned his head back on the headrest and sank into a thin doze. No matter how tired he was, he could never really fall asleep while traveling . . . He and Dany were walking on the beach hand in hand. Jon closed his eyes and listened to the crash of the surf and let the warm sunshine sink into his bones. Then her hand was gone. He opened his eyes and she was gone, the beach was gone, the sun was black and lifeless. Gone, gone, _gone_. He ran, shouting her name. They had her. They had her and he didn’t know _where_ . . .

“Jon? Jon, can you hear me?” Dany’s voice woke him. Jon swallowed hard, blinking back to reality. The train had stopped, and passengers were shuffling about, gathering luggage, swilling the last of their drinks.

“Yeah, yeah. Just dozed off. Let’s go.” Jon shook off the dregs of the dream and grabbed her hand.  

The clock in the terminal read six o’ clock. It took some time to wade through the crowd of commuters to the car rental desk. Thanks to Robb, there was a small SUV ready for them. Dinner was a brief detour at a greasy spoon diner. Torrhen Square was a lakeside town, full of kitschy shops, hostels, fishing stores. It took maybe ten minutes to wend their way to the edge of town. 

“If you need to make a call, best do it now. There’s no much reception out at the cabin,” Jon said when they pulled over to fill up on gas. Daenerys gave him a tired smile and dug for the burner phone.

“Good idea. I should call Vis. I’m glad Barry and Rakharo are ok, but it would be nice to know if they’d heard from Missy or Shae.”

Jon nodded, stifling a yawn as he attached the gas hose. He scrubbed his face with his hands. Almost there. They could finally get some decent rest at the cabin. The pump ticker clicked rhythmically. Through the cracked window, he could hear the soft music of Daenerys’ voice. A cold breeze ruffled his hair. Beyond the sharp smell of petrol, he could smell the lake. Open water and plant life. With it came a flood of childhood memories. All of them piling into a van, snacking and joking as they drove.

“What?” It was the sharpness in her voice that drew Jon from his wool-gathering. Jon peered through the window. Her face was pale, stricken. Jon’s belly clenched. What now?

“What is it?” he hissed. Daenerys waved him off, clinging to the phone with a claw-like hand. Jon bit back a rush of irritation. _Don’t mind me, I’m just following you around, sheltering you, falling ass over head in love with you--_

“And Rakharo, did he--?” Jon cursed under his breath. Whatever his problems, at the end of the day, the harpies were trying their level best to rape and murder her. Besides that, the body count was rising, for which she blamed herself. He had little room to complain after all that.

Jon finished with the gas and slid into the cab. Tense, he jerked the car in gear and focused on speed and negotiating turns as he listened to half of a very heated conversation. Not with the brother. The detective guy then. The fuckers had made another move.    

Daenerys hung up. Silence was as thin and sharp as a blade of glass. Her tears shone in the eerie glow of the dashboard.

“Dany?” Jon said, trying to keep his voice even and calm.

“Barry’s dead. They tried to repair the damage, but he died on the table.”

 


End file.
